Forgotten Tales of Middle-earth: Glimpses
by BlondiezHere
Summary: Glimpses will be an on-going collection of one-shots and deleted scenes from larger stories that all take place in the Forgotten Tales AU. Although placed in the Hobbit category, some pieces will feature Lord of the Rings characters.
1. Make Music Again

**_3434, Second Age -_** ** _Aftermath of the Battle of Dagorlad_**

Not every elf was cut from the proverbial warrior cloth.

Elrond had seen more of his kin entirely unsuited for battle than he cared to count during the campaign against Sauron, but thus far none had stood out as much as the ellon standing about 30 feet away did now. The dark-haired, dark-eyed fellow looked about the carnage all around him with wide eyes and a pale face, and appeared completely and utterly…lost. Shock would quickly take over his mind if no one intervened, and then he'd be of no use to them.

Not to mention he'd be a danger to himself and to others.

Taking a deep breath, Elrond aimed toward the elf. "Why don't you come and sit down a while?" he said in as soothing a voice as he could.

The ellon, whom he sensed to be only around 1,100 years or so of age, blinked as though just noticing him. "I…" was all the response he managed.

"Come," Elrond insisted gently, taking a light but firm grip of the fellow's arm. "I was just about to take a rest and could do with some company."

The ellon went along without protest. Elrond guided him to the commissary tent and pushed him into a seat. He then fetched them both a goblet of water before taking the seat across from him, and took a drink from his glass before he spoke again.

"What is your name, young one?"

It was a moment before his companion answered. "Lindir."

"Hello, Lindir. I am Elrond."

Lindir blinked again. "You are the herald of the king," he said.

Elrond raised his brows a fraction in surprise. "You have me at a disadvantage, my friend—you know who I am but the reverse is not true. How came you to Gil-Galad's service?"

A shaking hand reached for the goblet before him and Lindir took a sip before he replied. "I was drafted, I suppose you could say. A messenger of the High King came to us in Harlond, saying that the king was in need of those loyal to him who were possessed of a heart willing to face the Dark Lord's forces in battle. I thought, perhaps foolishly, that I was such a person."

Loyalty and a willing heart were all well and good, Elrond mused, but more than that was required of a soldier. A strong constitution was a great necessity, for not every elf was capable of handling the atrocities of war.

"This was your first battle," he said. It was a statement rather than a question, based on a sudden intuition.

Lindir nodded, then took a longer pull of the water. "As I said, it was a foolish thought. I'm no soldier, my Lord. I am a musician—or I was. I do not know that I shall ever have desire to take up my lute again."

The thought that this young elf might cast aside his gift saddened Elrond. He looked around them at the forlorn company inside the tent—they were all feeling rather downhearted, he knew, for a great many of their kin had been lost a few days before.

He was then startled—though he made no outward sign of it—when suddenly a vision of Lindir bathed in moonlight, his instrument across his knees, passed across his consciousness. Elrond knew it would be some time in coming, but it gave him hope, and he resolved to do his best to give some of that hope to the elf across from him.

"This war cannot go on forever, Lindir," he said slowly. "The dark days will surely come to an end, and when they do the sun will shine all the brighter. Do not let your heart be so troubled after one battle that you lose all hope and desire for the pleasures of your old life."

Seeing that color was returning to the younger ellon's face and the shaking of his hands had subsided, Elrond stood. "When all this is over—and it _will_ be over one day—I bid you come to me in Imladris. Stay there a while. I've no doubt you will find the beauty of the hidden valley inspiring."

The expression in Lindir's eyes clearly showed he did not believe in the confidence of his words, but he nodded. Elrond chose to take that as a positive sign and departed to see where else—or to whom—he could be of service.

* * *

 ** _1, Third Age -_** ** _Valley of Imladris_**

Lindir took a deep breath and held it for a moment, before releasing the air through pursed lips. He did not know why he was so nervous—it wasn't as though he'd never held the instrument before.

It had, however, been nearly nine years.

The devastation of war had leeched from him all desire to make music. All he could focus on was getting through it. Surviving to see another day. So many lives had been lost—thousands of elves, men, and dwarves had fallen in the Last Alliance. He often wondered if their ultimate victory against Sauron was worth the price that had been paid.

Ereinion Gil-Galad—the High King of the Ñoldor—had fallen. His people were now scattered and leaderless.

 _Mostly_ , Lindir amended silently. There were still settlements largely populated by elves of Ñoldor and Sindar descent across Eriador. Imladris was one of them, and Elrond had proven himself a wise and noble ruler. Many of his kin had been drawn to this place after the War of the Ring seeking peace for their battle-weary fëar; some, like himself, had been personally invited by the valley's lord.

Ever would he be glad of it, for the serenity and beauty of the hidden valley were indeed inspiring. Still, he had been here nearly two years, and this was the first time he had felt a stirring to take his lute in hand.

Carrying the wooden string instrument his father had made for him under one arm, he closed the door to his rooms and walked away. Lindir moved almost silently through the halls of Elrond's house, not wanting to disturb his lord or any of the other residents. He left the house and headed to his favorite place to be alone—a small outcropping of rock by one of the valley's many waterfalls. It was backed by trees and overlooked a pool in which his fellow residents liked to swim on warm days. Tonight Ithil was high and bathed the whole of the land in a soft glow.

Sitting down and crossing his legs, the ellon made a few cursory plucks of the strings—his lute was badly in need of tuning. Lindir made the necessary adjustments and then suddenly found himself still. He didn't know what to play.

Then an idea came to him: He had started a new life here, so why not make new music? Nearly a decade he had fought what seemed a losing war and he had _survived_ —that was reason enough to celebrate with song. His heart had not been in it, however, until now. Lindir suspected that the Valar knew he had needed time to heal before rekindling his desire to create new music.

He glanced up for a brief moment and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens that his love of music had not been lost to him forever, as he was just beginning to realize how very much he had missed playing.

It was with a slowly growing smile that he began to strum the lute, the tune coming to him easily. Yes, this would make for a nice song indeed, he thought, in his mind conjuring words to go along with the music.

* * *

Some distance away, Elrond watched the young minstrel and smiled. His vision of a happier time for Lindir had finally come to pass.


	2. Unto Them Are Born Sons

**Bonus kudos if you can catch the _Die Hard_ reference I snuck in.**

* * *

 ** _January 31, 130 - Third Age_**

 ** _Imladris_**

"Come."

Elrond looked up as the door to his study was opened. Lindir—who had come to Imladris to restore peace to his troubled soul at the end of the war—had transitioned from being merely a resident to an invaluable asset to his staff. He was quickly becoming his right-hand man, as the mortals were wont to say, having volunteered to take on many of the more "menial" tasks that came along with operating a refuge for their kin.

The younger ellon entered carrying a rectangular wooden box, on top of which was a parchment envelope. "This just came for you by messenger, my Lord," he said as he set the box on the edge of the desk. "A messenger from Greenwood brought it."

An eyebrow rose in curiosity as Elrond took the envelope in hand. "From Greenwood, eh? Must be something important for Thranduil to send his message in person, so to speak. You've seen to the rider's comfort?"

Lindir nodded. "Of course. He has been directed to the dining hall and a guest room that he might eat well and rest before beginning his return journey."

With a smile, Elrond said, "Thank you, Lindir."

Nodding his head, Lindir turned around and departed. Elrond sat back in his chair as he broke the wax seal on the envelope and pulled out a brief, succinct letter written in the Sindar king's bold stroke.

 _Elrond,_

 _Though it pains me to write these words, you were right. My beloved Mírya was safely delivered of a son today, 13 January. We have chosen to call him Legolas. It is a most joyous day here in my kingdom, and I could not be more pleased. I've a mind to make a national holiday of this auspicious occasion._

 _As you have won the first of our wagers, enclosed in the box is the agreed upon bottle of wine—one of the finest vintages from my stores. I expect two of yours in return come May._

 _Sincerest regards,_

 _Thranduil Oropherion_

A chuckle escaped him as Elrond finished reading the letter. Months ago he had written Greenwood's lord and spoken of a vision he'd had, wherein Thranduil walked the paths of his woods holding the hand of a small boy who could only be his son. Thranduil's response was that he and his queen were certain their child would be a girl, and had wagered one of his oldest bottles of wine on the matter. He had also expressed amusement at the fact that though Elrond's own wife was with child—and expecting twins, according to the healers—he had not been able to foresee the gender of his own offspring. He had thus declared his prediction that Elrond would be saddled with two girls. The Ñoldo had accepted the bet, saying that though his gift would give him nothing, he felt certain his firstborn children would be male.

"We shall see if you get those bottles, my friend," he murmured aloud.

"To which friend do you refer, my love?"

The sound of Celebrían's voice startled him—her footfalls were so soft, even in her present condition, that he'd not heard her enter his study. A wide smile lifted the corners of his lips as he looked up at her, his heart swelling with love as he took in the fullness of her belly.

"Thranduil of Greenwood," Elrond replied in response to her query. "Mírya delivered her child a fortnight past. It was indeed a boy."

His wife smiled as she rounded the desk. "How wonderful. Did he give the child's name?"

"He is called Legolas."

Celebrían smiled wider, a hand absently beginning to rub circles on her stomach. "Green Leaves," she translated. "How appropriate for a child of Greenwood the Great."

"Indeed. I've a really old bottle of wine to open now—do you think our children can handle a sip? I'd have you celebrate the birth of one of our kin with me," Elrond said, gesturing toward the box which contained his prize.

His wife laughed. "A sip? My love, these two are ready to tend bar."

* * *

 ** _May 20, 130 – Third Age_**

 ** _Greenwood_**

Lindir followed the page in silent wonder. The halls of the Greenwood king were a stunning sight to behold. Hewn straight from the rock of the mountains, it boasted cavernous rooms, pillars carved to look like trees—for that matter, there were actual trees growing inside. Waterfalls, even!

It was a place of surprising beauty, he admitted to himself, though it could not compare to the wonders of his home in Imladris.

When he was before the silver-blond Thranduil at last, Lindir raised his arm in salute and bowed.

" _Suilad_ , _mellon_ ," Thranduil greeted him as he stepped down from his throne. "I am told you are come from Rivendell?"

"That is correct, my Lord," Lindir replied. "I am called Lindir, and serve as executive assistant to Lord Elrond."

Thranduil eyed the box he carried, and a grin formed. "I believe I know what you are here to tell me. The Lady Celebrían has given birth to her children? Tell me she had daughters."

Elrond had told him to keep a straight face, to let Thranduil read the letter first. Lindir found doing so more difficult than he'd thought—the state of the king's presumptive joy made him want to shout out loud how wrong he was.

Shifting the box he carried, he reached into his traveling robes and pulled out the letter Elrond had written. Thranduil took it from him and opened it with an expression of amusement dancing in his eyes that quickly gave way to annoyance. When he finished reading, he looked to Lindir.

"If the Lady Celebrían gave birth to sons, what is that for?" he asked, gesturing to the box.

Lindir smiled as he opened the box to reveal two bottles of wine. "My Lord Elrond bid me express his joy at becoming a father by bringing this gift to you in spite of your…incorrect guess. He said sir, and I quote: 'All new life is worth celebrating, male and female. Let us rejoice in the miracle of our children.'"

At this Thranduil's expression relaxed and he smiled. "Elrond does have a point. Come, Lindir," he said, sailing past and starting down the steps that led from the throne platform. "I would have you meet my wife and son while we crack open one—or both—of those bottles and celebrate new life."


	3. So Brave A Young Man

**This piece is a deleted scene from _The Journey of Hearts_.**

* * *

Beric thought elf ladies were very pretty.

Especially Miss Tauriel. She had the best smile he'd ever seen. And even though she didn't know it, he would follow her around—in the manor or through town—because he really liked her smile. She was doing that a lot lately because her and Mister Bard had made up and were gonna have a baby together.

He had a baby sister, so he guessed babies were okay.

Today was no different than most days. Warm and sunny. Miss Tauriel told Miss Halia she was going to do some shopping because she wanted to buy some presents for Mister Bard's children. He liked them a lot and they were real nice to him even though they were all so much older than he was. He might be young, but he figured buying presents for nice people was a good thing.

When Miss Tauriel left, she was smiling of course, so he slipped out the door behind her. The market wasn't too far, but there weren't a lot of places for him to hide if she turned around, so he made sure he was really, really quiet.

He didn't go inside the jewelry shop with Miss Tauriel, but he wanted to. Beric was afraid he'd be caught, because he really wasn't supposed to be leaving the house by himself—he hoped Miss Halia wouldn't realize he was gone and get mad at him. So he stayed across the street and watched the door, waiting for Miss Tauriel to come out.

Beric stood up straight when he saw the mean lady enter the store. Through the glass he could see her talking to Miss Tauriel. He frowned—what did she want? That mean lady didn't even like Miss Tauriel. She didn't like kids either, because she was always mean to him and Erina and she always complained when Miss Halia asked her to take care of Beryl. Beryl was just a baby, what was there to complain about? And him and Erina weren't too loud and didn't ask dumb questions and did what they were told, so he just didn't understand why that woman was so mean to them. He'd been so glad when she moved out of the big house he lived in with Mister Bard and his family.

When the mean lady and the pretty elf left the store together, of course he followed them. He didn't like that the mean lady was being nice to Miss Tauriel, it was like she was pretending. Beric followed them all the way to a little house that was on a street he didn't really know—Miss Tauriel had never come here before and Miss Halia never had either. But the mean lady must live here, because she opened the door right up and Miss Tauriel went inside ahead of her.

Moving to the doorway across the street, Beric hunkered down to wait. Miss Tauriel probably wouldn't be in there very long. He could just go home—Miss Halia was probably wondering where he was by now—but he decided to wait for at least a few minutes before he left.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until a loud bang made him jerk awake. Beric looked across the street in time to see the mean lady walking away from her house, a big smile on her face.

Where was Miss Tauriel? Did she leave already and he missed her?

No, he couldn't have been asleep that long—the shadows on the ground hadn't moved that much from the last time he looked at them. Was Miss Tauriel still in the mean lady's house? Why would she stay if the mean lady was leaving? Would she clean up if they ate food?

Beric stood and went across the street. He knocked on the door, softly at first but then louder when he realized he wasn't doing it hard enough. There was no answer. Looking left and then right, he tried the knob to see if it would turn—it did. Should he go inside? he wondered. He knew he wasn't supposed to go in other people's rooms or houses without permission, but what if something was wrong with Miss Tauriel? What if the mean lady had left to go get help for her?

 _Don't be silly, Beric_ , he heard Erina's voice in his head. _She doesn't like Miss Tauriel, remember? Why would she help her?_

He didn't know the answer to that. He didn't know if he should go inside or not, but he hadn't seen Miss Tauriel leave. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to take a quick peek to make sure she wasn't here, then he would go home.

Opening the door, Beric quickly slipped inside. Miss Tauriel was not in the sitting room. She wasn't in the kitchen, the privy, or the bedrooms. He was just about to give up, thinking she must've left while he was asleep, when he noticed another door. It was locked, but all he had to do was turn a little bolt under the handle and the lock clicked. When he opened it, he saw that it had stairs that went down. He couldn't go down there—it was really dark and he didn't like the dark.

Beric was about to shut the door when he heard a funny noise. It almost sounded like a scream, kinda like one of the last times he had used his voice, and he had screamed through Erina's hand down in the cellar under the school when the bad things came. The noise came again, and it really did sound like a scream—maybe it was Miss Tauriel!

But why would she be scared? She had knives—oh, wait! She had left them at home! Miss Tauriel didn't have any knives or bow and arrow or anything to fight with. And she was having a baby, was she scared for her baby, and that's why she was screaming?

She sounded so scared. Beric knew he was going to have to be real brave, like Aldus when he fought the monster in the school, and go into the cellar. Maybe Miss Tauriel was just scared of the dark, like he was, and needed help finding the way out. He went down the stairs one at a time with his hand on the wall. Leaving the door open helped a bunch, but the farther down he went the darker it was. When he got to the bottom, he wondered how in the world he was going to help Miss Tauriel find her way out when he couldn't even see her!

Then he heard another funny scream, coming from his left. He moved slowly toward the sound—she was screaming over and over now, and he was so scared for her. He didn't see or hear anything else, so he didn't know what was scaring her, but it made him really sad that she was afraid.

Suddenly his outstretched hand hit something. It was covered in a soft fabric, and he knew he had found her. Though she had flinched at his touch, Beric reached out again—he was touching her knee.

He still couldn't figure out what was scaring her, but he had to do something. Finding his voice for the first time in months, he said to her, "Everything will be all right, Miss Tauriel. I'll go get Mr. Bard. He'll help you."

Her only response was to jerk away from his hand and continue to scream. Beric turned around and headed toward the bit of light that came from upstairs, hoping he didn't bump into anything and get hurt. What good would he be then?

Oh, he hated that mean lady! How could she do something so bad to Miss Tauriel? Miss Tauriel was never mean, she didn't treat people like they wasn't as good as her! She was always helpful and nice and she smiled the prettiest smile. Why would anybody want to hurt her?

Finally he made it to the stairs, and instead of going slow he ran this time. Beric had to move fast so he could get help. When he made it into the hall of the house, he realized he heard noise outside. Horses were running real hard, but they seemed to stop right outside. He hurried over to the door and threw it open, running right into the very person he had wanted to find.

Mister Bard. Now, Miss Tauriel would be safe again.


	4. Dark Legacies

**TJoH deleted scene. Takes place between chapters 46 and 47.**

* * *

Tauriel had just pulled a simple cotton night dress over her head when there was a knock at her door.

Thinking that perhaps Maglor had returned, she went to it and reached for the knob. "Is there something I can do for you, Haru?" she asked as she pulled the door open.

Surprised she was to instead find Ranárë standing across the threshold. "Forgive me, Aranel, I know the hour is late. But I felt compelled to come to you."

Her brow drew together in confusion, but Tauriel nonetheless stepped back to allow the other woman to enter. Ranárë gave a small nod and then moved past her.

"You're no doubt wondering why I'm here, given how you've all but avoided me since you woke up," the Maia said as Tauriel closed the door and turned to her. She held her hand up as the elleth opened her mouth to protest. "No, don't bother trying to deny it. And worry not about offending me, it is not easily done."

"All right then," Tauriel said as she moved over to sit on the edge of her bed. "I am curious. And I have avoided you—not in a conscious effort to be rude, but frankly because your staring made me uncomfortable."

Ranárë offered a half-hearted smile. "Sorry about that," she replied as she walked to the armchair near the bed and lowered herself into it. "But it is not often I meet someone with whom I have anything in common, though ours is the kind of shared trait I'd not wish on my worst enemy."

She laughed without humor then. "Of course, some say my worst enemy is already punished for his crimes. Others say my worst enemy is myself. But given we are related…"

Tauriel's brow winged up again. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

Ranárë looked to her with a haunted gaze. "You just learned that you're the granddaughter of a kinslayer. I imagine hearing that, and knowing it to be true, must have felt like a physical blow."

"In a way it did," she agreed slowly. "But my pain stems more from having learned that my parents may well have lied to me for the entirety of the brief time I knew them rather than what Maglor did. Call it youthful naïveté if you like, but even knowing him so briefly, I sense that he's not the ellon he once was. Guilt and sorrow and regret are constant companions that are likely never to leave him, and he seemed genuinely happy to have learned of me."

"And how would you judge him?" her visitor asked.

"I cannot," she replied honestly. "I do not feel it is my place to judge a person whose crimes were committed over an age before I was beget. Maglor has already been judged by the Valar, though I daresay not even they can judge him more harshly than he does himself."

"Don't be too sure of that, Princess. He is forbidden to return to Valinor," Ranárë told her. "Maglor can never again step foot on his native soil. He will never again be able to look upon the face of his beloved mother."

Tauriel felt her heart sink at hearing those words. She had not known Maglor could never return to Aman. "That is a terrible burden for him to bear," she said. "I've no doubt he has cursed himself for swearing the oath to his father nearly every day since the end of the First Age—perhaps even longer than that."

Her hand fell to her belly. "He said that I, that we, were his redemption. Or rather redemption for the House of Fëanor, though I do not know what I can do for him, the last of his father's house who did those evil deeds. I very much doubt that I can convince the Valar to let him go home again, which instinct tells me is what he would like more than anything else in this world."

"Who knows? Maybe someday you can change their minds," Ranárë said. "Of course, in my case, I'd not even bother to try. I could care less about he who sired me—after all, the Revolt of the Ñoldor was ultimately his doing."

Now Tauriel frowned. "You have lost me again, my Lady. How was your sire involved—was it not Melkor the Fallen whose lies and treachery lead my great-grandsire to incite the rebellion?"

Ranárë held her gaze and said nothing. It was near two minutes before Tauriel realized what her silence all but shouted.

She blinked rapidly. "But… That is impossible! The Valar would know… After all he'd done, who would…?"

"It is not impossible, the Valar do know, and her participation in my conception was not willing," Ranárë said, her voice strangely cold.

A chill ran down Tauriel's spine at the words "not willing." Rape was a concept all but unknown to her kin—to force another sentient being into an act that should always be engaged in by choice was anathema to Elves. She knew there were Men who had done it, and the rare tale had reached her people even in the woods that orcs and goblins were not above committing so heinous a crime against captives.

Not that they took very many hostages to begin with. Usually they just killed without mercy.

Her silence prompted Ranare to continue, though the look in her eyes became distant. "It was 1495 in the Years of the Trees. Melkor and Ungoliant had just destroyed them and plunged Valinor into darkness. They fled through Formenos, where as you may know your great-grandsire kept his precious jewels. While there Melkor not only stole the Silmarils and murdered High King Finwë, he encountered a lady of the Maiar with whom he had long been deeply infatuated. At one time he had proposed marriage to her and she refused him, and so to punish her for that slight, he took advantage of the darkness and forced himself on her."

At last Tauriel found her voice. "It is no wonder Lord Elrond respects you so. You are both Maia and Vala."

Ranárë snorted derisively. "I lay no claim to my Valar heritage, for I was conceived in rape by one who had fallen from their favor. He was evil, and I want no part of that."

Her expression became far away again. "I suppose it is not so much that you and I have something in common, Aranel, but that your circumstances would not be what they are had it not been for him. If he had not killed your twice-great grandsire, had not taken those wretched stones—if he had not fed the jealousy of Fëanor for his brothers and stirred up the Ñoldor with his lies…"

She turned to her then. "You might well have been born on the blessed shores of your forebears, and lived your life blissfully ignorant of all the ills of this world. You'd not have had your heart broken by the death of the dwarf, would not have run from the impending demise of the man to whom you are now wed. Your entire life, Tauriel, was veered from its natural course because the creature that sired me was an evil tyrant who desired nothing more than power he did not deserve. He corrupted everything and everyone he come in contact with, giving no thought to the consequences of his actions. He did not care who got hurt, so long as he got what he wanted."

For a long moment, Tauriel could only stare. Her thoughts crashed around in her head as she tried to process the revelation Ranárë had just laid before her.

"Why did you tell me this?" she asked finally.

Ranárë's smile was weak. "Because I knew why you were avoiding me and desired that you understand why I looked at you the way I did," she said. "Having scented your lineage in your blood, I could sympathize more than anyone else in this world that yours is a dark legacy. No one should be made to face the choice of whether or not to acknowledge who they are and whence they come from."

Anger suddenly flared within her. "Then why was I?" Tauriel demanded. "I did not know of my relation to Maglor, did not _need_ to know. I did not need to know I am kin to Elrond's children, or his mother-in-law… I've lived all my life believing I am a simple Silvan Elf and I was okay with that!"

"I'm sorry. It was not my intention to hurt you, _Aranel_ ," Ranárë replied. "Even as much as the knowledge is a burden, I believed you had the right to know who you are. The Maiar who raised me did not tell me for many years who had sired me and who had birthed me. I felt betrayed even though they were the best parents I could have ever asked for—I wanted for nothing in their care, not even love."

"And what good has knowing you are the spawn of Melkor done for you? You hate him and all he has done so much that you refuse to acknowledge your own heritage."

"I acknowledge she who birthed me," Ranárë countered. "I am the daughter of Arien, the Guardian of Anar."

Tauriel's eyes widened—before her was the child of the Guardian of the Sun.

She collected herself in moments. "And what of your sire? Despise him all you like, for many who live in Middle-earth still do. But what is the point in denying what you are? Do the Valar refuse to count you among them as they do him?"

Ranárë looked down at her hands, held together in her lap. "No. Manwë himself, to whom my father Eönwë is Herald, was once very dear to me. Like an uncle. When the truth was revealed to me—mistakenly, I might add, as I overheard it and learned they had no intention of telling me—the High King of the Valar said he would be proud to count me as one of his kin. My mother visited me from the heavens that night and told me that coming from darkness does not make me like my sire."

"She is right, you know," Tauriel said. "So long as your own actions are noble and just, why would you not embrace what you are? You are born of two of the most powerful beings on Arda, my Lady—you should accept that power. Defy the dark legacy that haunts you; use the gifts you were born with to do the exact opposite of he who sired you: Preserve life instead of ending it. Seek peace instead of war. Love instead of hate."

For a moment Ranárë only stared, then she chuckled lightly. "I think perhaps you have inherited some of the wisdom of Nerdanel," she said. "I propose the same to you, Tauriel: Accept that you are a Princess of the Ñoldor, that you have power and gifts within you yet untapped. Accept Maglor as your grandfather; Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen and Galadriel as your cousins. Forgive the past and embrace the future that awaits you. Maybe Maglor is right, and you are his redemption. At least he has remorse for his actions, which I think means there is a chance he can be saved—there is no hope for my sire."

With that, Tauriel's visitor stood. "Forgive me for keeping you, Aranel. The hour is late, and you have much to think about."

Tauriel's laugh was without humor. "That is quite the understatement, my Lady. What with learning I am pregnant yesterday and tonight learning I have a grandfather who was once a kinslayer, and what you have told to me, I have doubts now that I shall get any sleep."

Ranárë's expression shifted. "Again, I apologize. Such was not my intention. Beyond ensuring your understanding, I think perhaps…" Here she paused, and seemed to think on just what she wanted to say. "I think perhaps I just wanted to tell someone the truth. Lighten my own heavy burden a bit, I suppose. Besides yourself, only Elrond knows the truth."

"And what about his sons?"

The Maia blinked. "What about them?"

Tauriel raised an eyebrow. "Well, they asked after you yesterday. I assumed they had become friends of yours in your time here."

A smile flitted briefly across Ranárë's face. "Dan and Ro are… Those boys are quite persistent."

"And will you not tell them?"

Ranárë shook her head. "I don't think so. Because of who sired me, I cannot give them what they seek. Goodnight, _Aranel_."

Now in a sudden hurry to leave, Ranárë had opened the door and was through it in the time it took Tauriel to take a breath. Confused by the other woman's behavior, she rose and put out the light, then climbed into her bed.

As she settled against the pillow, her thoughts churned over what she had learned that night, reaffirming her belief that sleep would be long in coming.


	5. Death Wish

**TJoH deleted scene from chapter 56.**

* * *

After dismissing Melvar, Laivindil, and her parents, Tauriel poured a glass of water and set it before the king.

Thranduil did not touch it for a full five minutes.

She was about to have one of the guards outside the dining room send for a healer when he startled her, his hand shooting out and snatching the goblet from the table. The pale ellon raised it to his lips and drained the water before he set it back down.

" _Hîr nín_?" Tauriel asked softly. "Are you well?"

He blinked once. Twice. "So many years…" he said. "So many years it has been since I heard that name."

"I take it that hearing it again is most unwelcome?" she ventured to ask.

"More that I am stunned than angered," Thranduil replied.

Tauriel sighed softly, as she took her seat once more. She recalled Ranárë telling her that Legolas had not reacted strongly to meeting her again because he barely remembered her—Thranduil clearly had no such lack of recall. Whatever had transpired between them was clearly profoundly disturbing to them both, if the Maia's refusal to come here and the king's reaction to just hearing her name were any indication.

"Did my son see her in Imladris?"

She looked to Thranduil as she nodded. "He did, but by his account as well as hers, he remembered her very little," Tauriel replied.

"It is just as well. He was younger than you are now when last they met," Thranduil replied.

He'd been staring straight ahead, but now the king turned to her. Tauriel saw that his gaze was haunted and it served to distract her even more from the distress she was sensing through her marital bond.

"I'm sure you are curious as to why the Lady Ranárë's name has evoked so strong a reaction from me," Thranduil said.

Again she nodded. "I will not deny that seeing you behave so has me curious, but more than that I am worried for you."

"You are kind to say so."

"It is only the truth, _hîr nín_. Ranárë said she believed you no less ready to see her than she was to see you, even after two and a half millennia. It is why she remained behind in Lothlórien rather than journey here with Laivindil and myself."

"You'll think us both fools when I tell you what happened," said the king, before he did just that.

Ranárë, Tauriel learned, had been the adoptive mother of Mírya, the late queen. She had taken charge of the young elleth after the fall of Gondolin, in which Mírya's parents had been killed. Though the two were separated at Sirion when the haven was sacked, they miraculously reunited some 1,752 years later on a battlefield.

"Mírya and Ranárë then served under Gil-galad of the Ñoldor until the Battle of Dagorlad," Thranduil said, and reached for the glass before him. He was perturbed to find it empty, so Tauriel immediately took the pitcher of water on the table and refilled it for him. He took a long pull before he spoke again.

"After my father and so many of our army fell at Dagorlad, Ranárë and her company, including Mírya, were given the task of escorting what remained of the Greenwood forces back to our forest," the king continued. "Fifty-seven years later, I made Mírya my queen. Eighty years after our union she bore our only child."

Thranduil took another drink of water, and Tauriel sensed he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. She remained silent, both fascinated by his tale and already saddened, for she knew what was soon to come.

He did not keep her waiting long. "In the year 300 of this Age, my beloved, brave, foolhardy wife led a legion of our army north to combat the orc infestation at Gundabad. Those fell creatures often came from that dark place and attacked our borders—and my people had long tired of them. Ranárë went with her…and returned without her. When she told me of the queen's death, I was at first immobilized by shock. And then I did a very foolish thing."

"What was that?" Tauriel asked.

The half-smile he gave was the first show of emotion he'd made since hearing Ranárë's name, though it fell quickly. "I picked a fight with a wizard because I wished for death. There was no solace in this world for me, Tauriel, that could ease the pain of my loss. With Mírya gone I saw no reason to live."

She frowned even as tears fell silently from her eyes. And she had accused him of being without love—what a fool she'd been, blinded by her fear for Kíli and her anger at him for so callously disregarding the dwarves' plight during that horrible battle.

Thranduil not only knew love, he felt it so deeply that he had wanted his own life to end, having believed himself utterly unable to live without it. It was not that he did not feel for others…it was that he felt _too much_. And so he had closed himself away from the world following his wife's death, had let no one person get too close, because to care meant losing them would tear another hole in his _fëa_.

He already bore one that could never be repaired. It was how she had felt watching Bard die in Galadriel's mirror.

Then she thought over his words and frowned again. "But what of Legolas, my Lord? Was he not also aggrieved by the loss of his mother?"

"Of course he was, but my own pain blinded me to his. All I knew was that I wanted the agony to end, and the only way to do that was to die, that I might be with her again in the Halls of Mandos. At first Ranárë refused to engage me in combat, but I forced her to defend herself. That was where I made my mistake, for even consumed by her own grief she was a deadly opponent—not to mention with her being Maia she has power far greater than my own.

"Yet even when her blade was at my throat, she would not take my life. She reminded me that I was not the only one who suffered from the loss of Mírya. I had lost a wife, yes, but she had lost a daughter as dear to her as if they had shared blood. And I could not just go and leave behind my son, who needed me then more than ever he would, nor my people who had lost their queen. Legolas was of no mind nor was he anywhere near ready to succeed me as king."

Thranduil took a deep breath and released it slowly. "That very day Ranárë packed her things and left Greenwood. I have not seen or heard from her since, nor has her name been spoken in my presence."

"I am so very sorry, _hîr nín_ , that you are reminded of a grief you still feel so deeply. It is no wonder Lady Ranárë also refused to speak of why she would not come," Tauriel said softly.

"Meeting her again is likely inevitable. Though we've managed to avoid one another for twenty-five hundred years, I do not think we can do so forever," he replied.

He took another deep breath, drained his glass for the second time, and then in the blink of an eye his expression changed from one of time-worn grief to the mask of indifference she had long grown used to.

"Call your friends back to the table, Tauriel. I must apologize for delaying their breakfast," Thranduil said.


	6. Sisters' Lament

**This is a scene from _Entwined_ , an unfinished Forgotten Tale by the late Daniella Blue. It is included here in homage to her memory and talent for writing, and because I did not wish to let Bronwë's part in the history of things to come go untold.**

* * *

 _ **Imladris - Spring 2941**_

The stars were a like a net of sparkling jewels tossed against the velvet of a dark sky as two women laid close together beneath them. Long grass bent and broke beneath their combined weight, creating a bed scented of mossy earth tinged by the sweet, clear water of a river running close by. The early March wind, balmy for the time of year, caressed the pair and carried their whispers and soft giggles far into the night.

Smiling, Bronwë rested her head on her younger sister's shoulder. "I have never seen Lord Elrond so displeased in all my days. Heledhwen will not dare behave so dismally in his presence again."

Gilraen snuggled her head against Bronwë's. "Her behavior was truly horrendous. We must learn to restrain our laughter in her presence when she behaves so despicably—our amusement only encourages her."

The youngest daughter of five, Heledhwen was as beautiful and spirited as she was wild. She excelled in misbehavior that even the dour Bronwë was helpless to correct—though she'd tried numerous times over the years. On this day, Heledhwen had managed to drain Lord Elrond's finest decanter of wine before vomiting profusely in the Hall of Fire. Gilraen had been beyond mortified when Lord Elrond raised his eyebrows before looking in her direction.

Dúnedain did not behave with such a lack of decorum—though Heledhwen did.

Gilraen offered up a soft sigh as her dark eyes remained glued to the stars above. "If only mother would take Heledhwen… I suppose she will not."

Darkness passed over Bronwë's face like a shadow. "Mother is as busy tending the Dúnedain living about Fornost as father is with his duty as Ranger near the Shire. She has no use for a silly daughter like our sister."

"That was unkind," Gilraen murmured with disapproval.

"Perhaps," Bronwë allowed. "Do you not think Neniel and Heledhwen silly?"

Gilraen rolled her eyes. "Bronwë! You deride them and that hardly helps."

"Derision with love is tantamount to correction in my book," Bronwë retorted.

A soft, stinging slap caught Bronwë in the shoulder and the smile drained from her face as she stared into the Gilraen's hardened features.

"Ouch!" Bronwë complained.

Gilraen studied her elder sister for a moment.

The only feature Bronwë shared with her sisters was long, silky dark hair—she was not beautiful in the judgment of many Dúnedain, though Gilraen thought Bronwë striking in her own way. She had an unremarkable oval face with a long, thin nose though her skin was unblemished and her mouth pretty enough despite not being given to smiles.

Her dark eyes were what gave Bronwë a measure of beauty in Gilraen's opinion. Her gaze told her every emotion in detail though her face often proved impassive.

At thirty-eight, Bronwë was in her early majority and yet she had seen much. There were times Gilraen thought her elder sister had seen too much. She often appeared sad when she thought no one was observing her and though never a loquacious girl, Bronwë had only grown more reserved after becoming a ranger.

Bronwë frowned. "Elladan would recruit you for the Rangers forthwith if he witnessed such violent outbursts."

A grin began to cross Gilraen's face ever so slowly; finally reaching her eyes. "Do not think jesting will save you from my wrath if you continue behaving ill toward our sisters." She raised one slim finger and wagged it in warning only a breath from Bronwë's nose. "I'll not risk Estel learning from your example."

She held up her hands in placation. "Peace, Gilraen!"

Gilraen's eyes narrowed. "I warn you, Bronwë… I will box your ears!"

"Where is your sense of humor?" Bronwë sighed and turned her head so she faced the starry sky above.

"My humor has grown thin these past few months."

Bronwë murmured softly. She was more than aware how hard Gilraen worked to keep their sisters in line all the while raising Estel and providing lodgings for the Dúnedain Rangers. Elrond loved Estel like his own son and spent much time with the boy. The great Elf Lord had even built a generous hall further down the valley—ten minutes' walk from Rivendell.

The hall was built in a style favored by men that included a large dining room and many bed chambers, and was made complete with interior plumbing akin to that of the elves. A massive kitchen saw to the needs of the Dúnedain Rangers that arrived in shifts for weeks at a time before returning to their duties in the wild. Stables and an armory rounded out the Dúnedain halls.

Kissing her sister on the cheek, Bronwë frowned. "I'm sorry."

Gilraen softened. "You look tired. Will Elladan and Elrohir not give you more time to rest?"

Since the Dúnedain lacked a chieftain with Arathorn's death—Elladan and Elrohir had taken the lead as the Ranger's leaders. The sons of Elrond trained those with loyal and willing hearts as warriors of stealth that protected Eriador from orcs and other fell creatures. The brothers required five months of dutiful patrol with one month off spent either at Rivendell among the Dúnedain dwelling here or at the Rangers homes.

Tall, wise, and beyond fair—Elladan and Elrohir proved good leaders.

As a young girl, Gilraen had fancied them but it was a girlish desire that evaporated the moment Arathorn entered her sphere.

She knew Bronwë loved them as elder brothers and listened to them in all matters; save their desire for her to spend more time in Gilraen's house in Rivendell. Instead Bronwë spent ten months of the year on patrol and two with her sisters.

Gilraen wished fervently that Bronwë would remain but the female Ranger could not abide the spoiled nature of Heledhwen or the desperate longing Neniel conceived for poor Lindir, Lord Elrond's chief steward.

"Yes," Bronwë admitted softly before looking up at the stars once more. "I am ill-suited to spending my time wandering the gardens though." She paused a moment. "What was it like, Gilraen?"

The wistfulness of her tone had the younger sister studying her sharply. "To what do you refer?"

Bronwë swallowed thickly. "What was it like to be loved by a man?"

Gilraen sat and stared down into Bronwë's face before turning her eyes to the darkened western horizon. "I cannot accurately describe it—I can only tell you it was the most beautiful and terrible experience of my life. Arathorn was everything to me: goodness, strength, and honor. He was as loving as he was a fierce warrior." She began swiping at her cheeks and regret colored Bronwë's countenance. "The pleasure he wrought in my flesh was only outweighed by the light he brought to my spirit."

Standing, Bronwë shivered as the breeze turned cool, whipping her hair into a frenzy and stirring the folds her tunic. "I should go back in and see what Neniel and Heledhwen are up to."

"Taendis is supposed to be watching them…"

A snort of amusement escaped Bronwë's throat.

Though Taendis was next in age to Gilraen and very prim, she was obsessed with books. She rarely had her nose out of some history or other pertaining to the Dúnedain.

"Taendis is not capable of watching either of those girls. Neniel and Heledhwen have probably slipped away and are even now up to some mischief or other." Bronwë lightened her voice. "Best they be found by me than Lord Elrond."

"If only mother would take Heledhwen to live with her," Gilraen lamented again. "She misses mother and hides her grief though mischief. Such behavior cannot end well…" Gilraen preferred not to dwell on their mother for long; the woman's stony silence and cool, distant nature had imprinted on Gilraen's soul as a child, fueling her determination that Estel would have a warmer upbringing.

"Perhaps not, but Heledhwen cannot spend her life acting a fool and blaming it on mother. The rest of us do not." Bronwë wiped a hand over her face and looked away.

Gilraen fell silent; her own dark hair being stirred by the wind.

Bronwë only made it a few paces when Gilraen spoke once more. "One day you will know what it is to be loved by a male, my sister."

"Not by any Dúnadan," Bronwë replied. "The propagation of their lineage is too important."

Bronwë stalked away.

She never saw Gilraen turn to look after her nor did she hear Gilraen's words as they took wing on the early spring air.

"Barrenness will not dissuade he who will come to you in his own time."


	7. Introspection

**Another scene from _Entwined_ , an unfinished Forgotten Tale by the late Daniella Blue.**

* * *

"And then do you know what she did?" Ereg asked merrily as he held up his flask.

Several of the Dúnedain in the company looked at one another in distaste—most of them older men—including Echadion. The swordsman rose from his place at the fire wearing a dark expression; firelight glinting in his sharp, pale grey eyes. He tossed the contents of his cup into the fire and stopped beside Bronwë.

"Listening to filth is the last thing you ought to be doing," he advised.

The man's words were nearly drowned out by the crude shout of one of Ereg's more eager audience members. "Tell us what she did!"

A chorus of 'aye' shot up all around and Echadion shook his head before holding out his hand with expectancy upon his brow.

Ereg didn't waste a moment. "She sucked my cock like she had her plump little lips wrapped around a slice of berry tart!"

Ribald laughter and cheers rose as Bronwë frowned; allowing Echadion to pull her up and lead her away from the fire and the young men crowding around it. She'd heard worse, but the visual now firmly entrenched in her mind was vexing.

Living in a camp of males since the age of twelve had given her an eyeful of the male anatomy—including their sex—on more than one occasion. Bathing and tending to medical needs mostly, but she'd come across her comrades relieving their bladders more times than she could count. Once she had been on watch in the dead of night and upon hearing a strange rustling in the leaves, she went to investigate as duty required.

The scene Bronwë stumbled upon still was imprinted in her memory though it happened more than six summers earlier…

Belegorn was a younger Ranger newly recruited to Elladan and Elrohir's company. Tall and handsome he was—nearly as fair as an Elven youth. She found him knee deep in shrubbery with his back to a thick oak with his trousers pulled down to his knees while he stroked himself. Belegorn's eyes were closed and his head thrown back; bottom lip caught between his even white teeth.

His hand followed a mad pace as he pleased himself.

Bronwë had been mortified—in truth she still was even after the passing of so much time.

For in her haste to give Belegorn his privacy, she fell into a patch of briars.

She emerged covered in thorns and humiliated.

Belegorn was so shamed he begged Elladan and Elrohir to be sent to her father's Ranger Company to the south of the Shire, though it was far from his family home. The twins had agreed after much good-natured ribbing that left the young man red faced with mortification.

Elladan had then turned his attention to her with a grin so wide it looked a physical impossibility. "Our little Tuilinnel is all grown up! For shame, peeping at young men seeking their privacy whilst you should be on watch. "

"I must disagree, brother!" Elrohir managed between peals of laughter. "Bronwë was on watch—she was simply watching Belegorn." He grasped a thorn still lodged in her forearm and unceremoniously yanked it out. Growing somber, he glanced pointedly at her. "We advise you to be more careful, for men long deprived of female companionship are not to be wholly trusted. The Dúnedain are noble but they are men with frailties of their own. I warned you as a girl, but it seems you have forgotten. Kin or no kin—do not approach any of them when they venture into the wood alone."

Bronwë blushed at the memory of both the laughter and Elrohir's rebuke. Though she had never heard of a male Dúnadan raping a woman, occasional stories had reached her ears from other Ranger Companies with equal numbers of male and female Rangers. Tales of seduction whispered about in hushed voices; tales often ending with a pregnant female and rushed wedding ceremonies performed in the wild.

"Ereg is a pig," Bronwë groused as she followed Echadion toward the nearby stream. "Why would a man lay with a woman only to make light of her later?" The rare question tumbled from her lips before she could stop herself.

Conversation with the others in the company revolved around duty, weapons, and amusing anecdotes. She had learned long ago to veil her thoughts from others—her tendency to misspeak and inadvertently insult others was a curse.

Aside from Gilraen, Bronwë had only confided in Arathorn. In doing so, she grew to love him as a brother. His loss nine years earlier was so stinging she still felt the searing pain of his absence—though Gilraen suffered a grief unbearable to witness.

Snorting with disdain, Echadion shook his head before pulling his pipe from the interior of his jacket. "Some men believe because a woman takes his coin for so intimate an act she is undeserving of his respect. Even Dúnedain are not infallible and you would do well to remember as much." Roars of male laughter echoed from the direction of the camp as Echadion struck his flint and lit his pipe. "Ignore the fools."

Two tall figures loomed from the shadows of the wood.

"Which fool are you ignoring this time?" one of the twins asked.

Bronwë remained silent.

Birds took to flight from a nearby bush as another round of raucous laughter sounded; their delicate wings snapping in panic. The night air of late May was laden with many scents: clean water tumbling over mossy rocks in the stream, smoke from the camp fire, the crisp newness of green leaves unfurling from the slumber of winter, and sweet blossoms of wild fruit trees.

"That would be Ereg," Echadion supplied between serene puffs on his pipe. "I grow tired listening to his crass innuendoes as do others." The same age as Arathorn, Echadion had been one of his closest friends and was nearly as noble in spirit.

The Sons of Elrond looked at one another for a moment as though holding a silent conversation, before stepping into the patch of moonlight spilling like silver on the bank of the stream. Their identical countenances were grave as they stood listening.

Though Bronwë could only hear low murmurs and laughter, she knew the Peredhil had the sensitive hearing of their Elven heritage.

Soon, one of the pair arched an eyebrow. "I haven't heard such filth since the fall of Fornost, and all of it from the mouth of orcs." He shook his dark head. "I will pull Ereg aside and speak with him. Remain with Bronwë, Ro."

Elladan stalked toward the camp—though his feet were utterly silent as he moved.

Looking pleased, Echadion smirked and slowly followed Elladan, leaving Bronwë alone with Elrohir.

"We should have taken Ereg to task long ago," Elrohir began as he turned to study the water babbling merrily as it dashed against its banks. "I am sorry you were forced to listen to that sort of speech. We have been perhaps too relaxed as of late, for the lives of the men are hard and fleeting in our eyes. That ends tonight, so be prepared for the morrow."

She turned toward the water, but glanced curiously up at her mentor before looking away again. There were so many questions she had and yet she dared not ask, for Elrohir and Elladan were of elf kind. A deep reverence for the elves was built into her very core being.

Bronwë loved the greatness and majesty of the Firstborn as much as their innate goodness and beauty.

" _Elf kind is beyond every one of us_ ," Dírhael's words echoed in her mind; her father's intensity frightening to the small girl she had once been. " _We are a fallen people—unworthy to lace the boots of the Firstborn. The stain of Númenor has tainted our blood as evidenced by the foolishness of Isildur, and cannot be erased until the Enemy is defeated_."

Though Arathorn was respectful of the elves—especially Lord Elrond and his children—her brother-in-law had not believed the Dúnedain unworthy in the eyes of the elves despite the sins of the Númenoreans and Isildur. He tried his best to bestow his own beliefs on Bronwë and her sisters but to no avail, though Neniel took to his words like a bird to flight.

"You are very quiet," Elrohir remarked lightly as he bent. He stood with a smooth pebble between his long fingers. "What lies so heavy on your heart?"

She peeked at him only to find the ellon looking down at her as his fingers turned the pebble over and over again in his grip. "Am I not prone to quiet?"

"Truly you are," Elrohir answered in a soft voice barely heard above the gurgling of the water. "I have also known you since you were a small girl, and when you are troubled the natural reticence of your nature becomes silence like death itself. Do I not have your trust?"

Bronwë was stricken by the question. The twins had trained her since she was twelve years old and had a hand in raising her in some respects, for she was still a child when given over to their care. In truth, she trusted no one more aside from Gilraen and Lord Elrond. Still, she felt it wasn't right to speak frankly with those who carried the blood of the Firstborn. Her father's voice was ringing in her mind and his words were powerful still after so many years.

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Bronwë forced words to part from her lips. "The others were speaking of…"

"I know what Ereg and the others were discussing," Elrohir stated in a deadly calm voice. "Trust me when I tell you it shall not happen again."

She fidgeted with the sleeves of her tunic. "Do you think us mortal women as useless as they? Good only to warm a man's bed and bear him children?"

A great sigh escaped into the balmy night air. "Bronwë, you pain me at times." She looked up to find Elrohir's eyes pinned to her face; the normally sapphire orbs silver under the moon's influence. "No, I do not hold to such thinking and neither does Elladan—but you know this. Those back at camp also understand a woman's worth even if they choose to make ill jokes on the matter."

He reached out and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You are more than your womb."

"'Long shall you labor in the wilderness. No man shall have you nor desire you,'" Bronwë uttered her mother's words softly. "My mother is never wrong—you and Elladan are aware of her foresight."

Elrohir was quiet for a moment before finally speaking. "There are males of other races to consider: elves and dwarves."

A bitter laugh escaped her throat. "I am not fair enough to tempt any elf, and I should have to remove to the Ered Luin to ever come across a dwarf—unless we find one traveling on errand. Besides, I hear tell all dwarves care about is their craft. Mother will prove right in the end no doubt." Covering her face with her hands, Bronwë ventured to look at Elrohir. He was simply watching her in the calm fashion he and Elladan had mastered. "Forgive me for being such a selfish, petty fool when the world darkens around us."

"There is nothing petty or foolish about desiring happiness of your own. I do not pretend to have foresight, but I believe one day you will find what you seek." Elrohir released her before skipping the pebble across a smooth patch of water in the stream. "Do not give up hope, as Mithrandir counsels."

Bronwë dared not retort that Mithrandir was great—worthy of respect—but he was a well-known troublemaker throughout all Middle-earth. A laugh bubbled in her throat at the memory of hobbits in Bree calling the wizard a "meddlesome old conjurer."

"Why are you not wed?" The question had long plagued her and though it was not her business, Bronwë cared deeply about the Sons of Elrond.

Elrohir arched one eyebrow. "Bold… I prefer you this way, I must admit. Elladan and I haven't yet found the right female."

Confusion washed over her and she shifted nervously. "I don't understand."

The elf wore a look of surprise. "Explain."

Bronwë could feel her face burn and knew her cheeks were darkening in the moonlight. "I know elves do not… I mean to say… before they marry," she hurried along skipping any reference to bedding for fear of insulting Elrohir. "I've seen so many females flirt with you both that I was certain you must have found one… diverting."

Elrohir folded his arms over his chest and shook his dark head as an amused smile crept over his face. "My girl, Elladan and I have found no female diverting enough to take to our bed. We wish for the right woman to fall in love with. We may have Edain blood in our veins, but we also carry the blood of the elves and cleave to the traditions of the Firstborn."

"Forgive me," Bronwë laid a hand over her heart as mortification lodged like a splinter deep inside. "I meant no insult."

He laughed. "No insult was taken. You are still young in the manner of the Dúnedain and a child in the sight of the elves, so curiosity is to be expected. Truthfully, I prefer you question Elladan and I instead of stewing in ignorance."

Elladan came into the light wearing a frown. "I believe Ereg now understands speech that is acceptable from speech that is not."

Looking to the stars, Elrohir turned toward his brother. "The hour grows late and sleep is needed. I will take the next watch. The bandits we have been pursuing are not far. I fear we will meet with resistance as we approach them."

"I share your fear," Elladan stated. "Should it come to blows I will not go easy on them."

Bronwë shifted uneasily beside them. "We will hang them of course."

Surprise flitted across Elrohir's face before he regained his composure. "Our father has taught us to be cautious when dealing out death—though no orc shall ever escape our wrath. Have we not taught you the same over the years?"

"They are not just thieves," Bronwë retorted in a soft voice. "Some of them are rapists and murderers. Are such loathsome beings not worthy of death? I do not believe they should escape judgment because they are men and not orcs. Wrongs have been committed and justice must be served."

"Those who dare raise a sword to us will no doubt pay the price," Elladan replied. "As for any others that give themselves over to our custody—we will take them to Bree and let the master there deal with them in the fashion of the people. Do not be filled with haste to judge others and play the executioner."

She looked away and jumped as Elladan reached out and gave her a small push.

"Go and seek your rest before the blush of dawn colors the sky."

Bronwë gave a small nod. " _Fuin vain_!" she called softly over her shoulder before heading back to the camp. She was more than aware of two sets of eyes on her back as she picked her way carefully back down the path.

Elrohir's assurance that neither he nor Elladan had indulged in pleasures of the flesh still rang in her ears and she wondered briefly if they were ever lonely.

* * *

"She is forlorn," Elladan stated as he watched Bronwë's figure disappear around a bend in the stream. "I wonder at times if we ought not to order her to remain with Gilraen. It is not good that her entire life revolves around her duties."

Sitting on a boulder that rose from the earth only a step from the water, Elrohir studied the sky once more before glancing in his twin's direction. The pair was more one being separated in two bodies than two souls in identical flesh.

"Bronwë spoke more from her heart on this night than she ever has," Elrohir confided. "Arathorn was right in saying she is capable of deep thought and feeling."

"You doubted this?"

"Bronwë speaks only when required aside from the occasional droll comment or amusing story. I was beginning to have my doubts she was capable of more. She is one of the finest pupils we have ever had with a bow, yet her love for silence detracts from her ability to lead others should we ask it of her. Tonight she asked me a question I found shocking since it originated with her." Elrohir rested his chin on his forearm and studied Elladan.

His brother's brow arched. "Do not tease. What did she ask?"

"She wanted to know why we aren't married."

Elladan laughed. "That is absurd! You surely jest, for Bronwë has never shown any interest in our private lives beyond general stories of our upbringing."

Chuckling in return, Elrohir brushed the hair back from his face as the wind stirred stray locks across his cheek. "I tell you earnestly, Bronwë asked about our bachelorhood. She even thought we had dabbled in matters of the flesh because of the maidens that favor us."

"She knows better—for we are Sons of Elrond." Elladan frowned. "I tell you, she needs to spend time in pleasurable pursuits at her sister's home in Imladris." He hesitated a moment. "What did you tell her?"

Giving a lazy shrug, Elrohir jumped off the boulder and landed nimbly, and silently, on his feet. "I merely said we are looking for the right female. Is this not so, Dan?"

The other elf gave a nod before turning his face to the stars above. "You spoke the truth on the matter."

Elrohir joined his twin in listening to leaves stirring in the gentle breeze and the gurgle of the nearby water passing by. The beauty of the stars was undiminished for him, though over two millennia had crept by since he and Dan's birth. For the first time in over a century, he wondered when the female meant for him would come.

* * *

The bandits plaguing the Great East Road between the Forsaken Inn and the Last Bridge had proved cagey and difficult to pin down. The group moved often and the Sons of Elrond often came upon their abandoned camps only after great searching. Elladan and Elrohir hid their frustration from the other Dúnedain, but Bronwë could see in their eyes and the sudden tightness of their bodies how angry they were becoming as time passed.

When trade was low during the winter months, the bandits took to the Greenway and robbed and pillaged between Bree and the deserted ruins of Tharbad upon the Greyflood River. Even the mighty Dírhael—her own father—was unsuccessful in his attempts to apprehend the monsters.

Stories of rape, murder, and robbery slowly spread across all Eriador.

Hobbits began leaving the Shire less and less often. Bree-landers put up a guard and became increasingly suspicious of outsiders, farmers and woodsmen banded together and set up watches, and dwarves traveling for trade began sending their warriors with merchant caravans.

For two years, Elrohir and Elladan had relentlessly pursued the criminals.

Now finally their patience and dedication had paid off.

Bronwë wished the pursuit hadn't ended in the damn Midgewater Marshes. All of her company was swarmed by stinging gnats and biting midges. No doubt they would end up covered in so many bites they would appear as though a rash had taken them over.

Concentrating as a midge bit the tender skin at the corner of her eye, she fired off her first arrow.

The whistling projectile hit her target with a dull thunk; the slender wood shaft burying deep in the back of a young man's head as he prepared to skewer Olron through the back as the latter fought a pitched battle against a scarred warrior twice his size.

Hidden by a grouping of rushes, Bronwë scanned the battle for signs other of her fellow Rangers needed assistance.

Some might consider firing arrows from a hidden location to be cowardice, but nothing was farther from the truth. While the rest of Elladan and Elrohir's rangers were experts in the use of blades, Bronwë was merely proficient. She could defend herself, but to attack with a sword? Her skill level would make such an attempt a poorly conceived notion—one she might try out of pure desperation only.

Bronwë excelled with her bow and strategy; both of which she'd learned from the twins. She was an expert shot and she knew how to plan attacks to hit an enemy hard and lightning fast. Strength born of brawn she left to others more skilled in such matters.

Elladan and Elrohir fought back to back with men too foolish to understand they had chosen death the moment they raised their swords to the twins.

Most of the bandits chose to fight. Now the majority of them were meeting their ends at the end of a Dúnadan sword.

Nocking an arrow, Bronwë's world collapsed into tunnel vision as she spied another of the bandits attempting to stab Ereg in the back. She released the arrow and it struck the man through the neck. He stumbled before spinning and slowly sinking to his knees before dropping face first into the murky water of the marsh.

Shouts and dying screams filled the air all around over the clash of swords and splashing of water as bodies fell unceremoniously into the marsh.

Blood seeped into the muddy brown water briefly coloring it red and she could smell copper in the air.

Frowning, Bronwë sank to her knees in the muck before finding another target.

For the first time in years, she longed to be in the gardens of Gilraen; the silliness of her youngest sisters not a deterrent as it so often was. She missed Estel's innocence and the sweetness of his ever-present smile.

Even as the next arrow she loosed tore into a man's heart, Bronwë felt wetness on her cheeks.


	8. Farewell Hunt

**This is perhaps the final piece written by Daniella Blue for** _ **Entwined**_ **that I have a copy of - she shared with me but a few scenes. If I find anymore that bear on the Forgotten Tales AU, I may well share them. All three of her pieces were written solely by her, though "Farewell Hunt" was given a minor edit by me for storyline purposes, which will be later revealed in _A Change of Fortunes_.**

* * *

 _ **Harlindon, Spring 2941**_

Autumn and winter had slipped over Kíli almost unnoticed. He'd been so busy hunting and navigating through the rugged wilderness of the northernmost Ered Luin that time seemed to crawl by no faster than a slug might. Returning to Thorin's halls seemed a rare treat and he was ashamed at the expression of dismay that colored his mother's face every time he left again.

Kíli looked at spending time in the wilderness as a challenge designed to strengthen him in anticipation for Thorin's journey to Erebor. He was not ignorant of his uncle's desire to retake the mountain—neither was Fíli. The pair of them had listened to stories of the ancient dwarf homeland since they had been dwarflings old enough to walk.

How many nights had Thorin brooded over Erebor as he played the harp?

 _The number is beyond measure_ , Kíli thought.

Each day he spent honing his skills in the wild had brought him closer to an invitation from Thorin to journey to Erebor.

Fíli felt the same, though he spent more time in the sparring ring and at the anvil than traversing the empty lands beyond Thorin's halls. Kíli's older brother did accompany him for several weeks at a time when his duties permitted. Fíli had more expectations placed upon him by Thorin as his heir.

Kíli quirked one dark eyebrow as he shot a look across the fire at his brother.

The blond was sacked out against his blanket with one leg laid out and the other resting against a nearby tree stump. His arms were folded beneath his head as he stared up at the stars with a lazy smile. He had the look of someone well pleased and why shouldn't he be?

After all, both Fíli and Kíli had received the anticipated invitation to become a part of Thorin Oakenshield's company that would travel to Erebor. Thorin recently returned from traveling through Dunland on a matter of grave concern to him, but Kíli expected their uncle would wish to leave before May arrived.

He had even brought a wizard back with him from Bree.

A wizard! Kíli was gleeful at the mere thought.

"Remind me again why we are in Harlindon of all places?" a familiar voice grumbled, washing away Kíli's pleasant daydreams of honor and treasure. "If we wished to hunt we could have done so in Forlindon and not had to pay an Elvish ferryman an outrageous sum to be carried across the Gulf of Lhûn!"

Kíli frowned and snapped the stick he held in half before tossing it into the fire. "I thought you might enjoy fairer hunting grounds."

A surly expression swept over the auburn-haired dwarf's face as his dark eyes pinned Kíli in place before slipping to Fíli. "We are two weeks journey from Thorin's halls. I should like it better were I not close to any blasted elves!"

Releasing a sigh, Fíli sat up and raised one golden eyebrow. "You have been nothing but a blight on this trip, Gimli. We thought it would be pleasant to spend time with our younger cousin before leaving with Uncle Thorin."

"Yes," Kíli quickly agreed as Gimli opened his mouth. "After all, the three of us have always enjoyed one another's companionship and we won't see one another for many months."

The younger dwarf was still considered a boy though he appeared a young man among their people, but Kíli had never seen such a fierce opponent in the sparring ring. The son of Glóin would prove one day to be a warrior of renown… even Thorin had said as much.

Gimli had the grace to look abashed before shooting a dark look first at Kíli and then Fíli before pulling his pipe from his bag. "It simply isn't fair that my father denied me the opportunity to go on the journey with him! I may be younger, but is not my beard thicker and longer than this one?" He jerked his thumb at Kíli while staring Fíli dead in the eye. "'Tis the injustice that rankles me!"

Kíli shrugged as Fíli shot a dark look at their cousin.

Gimli wasn't the first to point out Kíli's pitiful excuse of a beard…an insult among their people.

At his age, Kíli knew he should have a beard as luxurious as Fee's. He was so used to the comments that it rarely bothered him anymore. He was more forgiving in Gimli's case because he loved his cousin and playmate of old, and knew the younger dwarf was feeling slighted by Glóin.

"Do you know where I am to be sent while the rest of you are headed to glory?"

Fíli frowned. "Yes, we do. You've only told us half a dozen times over the last weeks."

Gimli ignored him as he stuffed a pinch of weed into his pipe. "I am to guard a caravan traveling to Forlond!" He snorted rudely before waving the pipe about. "Forlond! Do you know what that means, lads?"

"Elves," Fíli and Kíli spoke in unison before grinning at one another.

Gimli was oblivious in his anger. "Exactly so! I shall be trapped in a city filled to the brim with those snide creatures!"

Fíli smirked at his younger cousin. "If you are so convinced Glóin has erred in not allowing you to accompany us, why not appeal your case to Thorin?"

"Indeed," Kíli stated in as calming and soothing a voice as he could muster; attempting to cover his desire to laugh at his cousin's stricken expression. "Thorin has the right to override your father!"

Gimli had just lit his pipe and taken his first draw of smoke; he immediately choked upon hearing Fíli's words. He gagged and turned purple in the face before finally managing to calm himself. "Thorin? He will simply agree with Father!"

"Pity," Fíli murmured.

Kíli struggled to keep a straight face. "Yes." He quickly looked to Fíli and cut Gimli's next comment off completely. "So where were you the last week before this trip?"

"I was in Mithlond," Fíli stated, his chest puffing up with pride and a sly smile creeping over his lips.

Intrigued, Kíli leaned forward. "Were you on business for Thorin?"

An amused chuckle escaped Fíli's throat. "Hardly," he offered in a playful voice. "I was there on business of my own."

"What sort of business?"

Fíli relaxed and rummaged through his own bag for his pipe. "Do you really wish to know?"

Gimli pulled his pipe from between his teeth. "That's a foolish question! Your brother wouldn't ask if he didn't care."

Laughing, Kíli raised his brow and waited.

"I was with a woman."

The sly tone, barely visible smirk, and his older brother's faintly narrowed eyes didn't escape Kíli's notice—the expression was one which Fíli often displayed when he had pulled off some incredible feat. Though his tone of voice was playful and teasing, Fíli was clearly pleased with himself.

Kíli pounced. "What was your purpose with her?"

"Are you daft?" Gimli huffed while shaking his head. "Even I know what your brother's purpose was, though I cannot imagine spending any appreciable time with a daughter of Men." With that, he crammed his pipe back into his mouth while sending a vaguely disapproving glare in Fíli's direction.

It was no secret that dwarf males often lay with daughters of men. There were not enough dwarf lasses born, so the ratio of males to females among their people was three to one. Add in that many dwarrow women had no interest in marriage and one had a slowly dying species.

Dwarf males were virile and desired pleasure no less than males of other races—long ago, in order to preserve their honor, dwarf men began approaching mortal women for relations. More often than not, pleasure for a dwarf began as an act of commerce. Those women interested in dwarves tended to be brothel workers and professional harlots. Still, dwarves had maintained their honor by not taking by force what could be procured by silver.

Kíli did not hear tales of dwarves marrying daughters of Men; he wondered why at times. On his earlier travels with Dwalin throughout Eriador he had seen many women and they were fair. Certainly they were beardless and most often far taller than dwarves, but pleasing to look upon all the same.

Instead, dwarf males had taken women to their beds as a rite of passage, to rid themselves of their virginity or to satiate their needs if marriage to a dwarrow lass wasn't probable. This was generally referred to as "quenching the flame" of lust so that it was not a distraction from worthier pursuits. The act was not spoken about in polite company generally and most certainly not in front of dwarf women.

On the increasingly rare occasion that a dwarrow met his One, it was said he felt the "eternal fire" Mahal had placed in him just for her.

Kíli turned his face to Fíli. "You bedded this woman?"

"Repeatedly," Fíli stated with a grin. "She's very fair for being beardless and she knows how to please a male. I learned a great deal from her. You ought to find a willing woman and do the same."

His face burned and Kíli dropped his eyes to the fire. Fee had always been practical and had spoken the last few years of shedding his virginity like an unwanted coat. Kíli had always imagined he would fall in love with a fair female that pleased not only his eyes but his heart and take her to wife; losing himself in her as they consummated their wedding vows.

Paying for a tumble among the bedclothes with a female who would open her legs for silver seemed… base.

Curiosity still burned within him. "Was it enjoyable, even though you did not feel the fire for her?"

Fíli nodded and looked up toward the starry sky. "Aye, and far more pleasurable than seeing to your needs with this," he held up his hand before letting it drop. "A woman is soft and warm and smells sweet beyond imagining. Mine was lithe with pretty, high set breasts like a pair of newly ripened apples."

Kíli was blessed with a vivid imagination. He recalled the women he had seen and, more rarely, spoken with on his travels. Most wore gowns that were high cut and revealed nothing of their bosoms to eager eyes—and he had looked aplenty—only showing off soft mounds that were attractive.

He raised one eyebrow. "The breasts of women are red like a robin's breast?"

Gimli had been silent; clearly engrossed in Fíli's tale. He rolled his eyes. "He meant that the woman's breasts were set high and were small and firm. I should be going on the quest—not this foolish scapegrace!"

Fíli simply shrugged.

"Oi!" Kíli's temper finally uncoiled. "I have never seen a pair of female breasts! Have you?"

Gimli's face turned brick red. "Well… uh…"

"I thought not!" Kíli howled triumphantly. "Stop being such an ill-tempered shrew!"

Gimli fell silent though he was clearly fuming as he continued to smoke.

Fíli chuckled at the rare display of Kíli's temper. "Perhaps you need to find a woman, despite your youth," he mentioned Gimli's age in gleeful, though good-natured spite. "A tumble between a woman's thighs might do you a world of good! Make you less inclined to irritation, cousin."

"I will never lay with a daughter of Men," Gimli thundered as he waved his pipe about. "I've no interest in or attraction to any female that is beardless, lacking a bosom, and that I need a stool in order to kiss properly!" A sharp click sounded as he shoved his pipe back between his lips; his teeth bearing down on the wood.

Kíli laughed so much he fell back against his blanket; almost losing his breath from mirth.

"Never is a long time," Fíli stated serenely; his golden brow smooth and unlined, though his eyes were dancing merrily. "You should not make such declarations since Kíli and I have excellent memories. Do we not, brother?"

"Truly!" Kíli managed to force out between gales of laughter. "I will hold you to your word, Gimli son of Glóin!"

"Clotheads," Gimli murmured affectionately around his pipe, though his lips turned up at the corners.

Kíli only laughed harder.


	9. Meetings with Dwarves

**Some weeks ago, I was contacted by a very close friend of the late Daniella Blue—her roommate, Elise. Elise told me she had been contacted by some folks who had seen the pieces of Daniella's work I had shared here previously and asked her about them. I suspected that she had written me to request the removal of Daniella's work, which I would have done post haste had it been asked of me.**

 **I could not have expected the honor that would be given me.**

 **Instead of censure I received praise for celebrating our mutual friend in so kind a manner as I had. Even Daniella's family was pleased that I wanted her work and memory to go on. Elise told me there were a number of other scenes Daniella had written for _Entwined_ that were finished and asked if I would be willing to share them with you all as I had the others. Because Bronwë would make a number of cameos in my own work, it is as though her tale can still go on to be told—there can in a way be closure—unlike that of Nori in another of Daniella's unfinished stories (one unrelated to the Forgotten Tales AU).**

 **Of course I said yes. Here is the first of them.**

* * *

 _ **Imladris, 2941**_

"I tell you this Elven Lord is not to be trusted." The bitterness in Thorin Oakenshield's voice was unsettling to Bronwë. Her ears pricked despite shame flooding her for eavesdropping. The deep evening shadows sheltered Bronwë as the Dwarf Lord and his faithful warrior friend entered the small garden she favored. "Elrond told Tharkûn we should not attempt to reclaim Erebor."

A cool, early summer breeze rustled the newly unfurled leaves all around Bronwë. The smell of green growing things mixed with old leather and the faintly salty odor of male skin. Stars filled the heavens above and the view stole her breath entirely.

So enchanted was Bronwë that she momentarily forgot dwarves occupied her secret bower.

This was the one place she could come to forget whatever woes dogged her steps. One could see out over the entire valley of Imladris—the view so stunning on clear days it seemed as though the whole of Middle Earth lay at her feet.

A deep, disgruntled sigh broke her secret musings.

"As much as it pains me," Dwalin muttered, "I fear you are right. Elves are too slippery in their dealings for my taste."

Thorin was silent a moment before rifling through his jacket. "Elrond claims he has not the resources to resupply us for another fortnight. My suspicion is that he merely attempts to waylay us." Suddenly he pulled his hands from his jacket before crossing his thick arms over his muscular chest. "Blast this infernal place!"

In the argent moonlight Dwalin's scars were smoothed away and he didn't appear so gruff. He tilted his head and studied the other dwarf closely. "What ails you other than being trapped with Elves?"

"Nothing," Thorin retorted in a dark baritone filled with acid.

"You seem to forget I know you better than you know yourself," Dwalin stated as a smirk touched his lips. "What is it?"

Thorin's normally steel blue eyes were liquid mithril under the moon's sway. "I am out of pipe weed."

A deep snigger filled with genuine amusement escaped the tattooed dwarf's throat causing Thorin to scowl outright. Reaching out, Dwalin clapped Thorin on the shoulder before striding by him. "I'll see if any of the others have pipe weed to spare."

The Dwarf Lord fell silent as he observed the silvery landscape of the valley below. His head was tilted down and his dark mane swung forward to hide his features. Thorin was the tallest of the dwarves and towered over Bronwë by a good four inches; her short stature something of a long running joke not only among the Dúnedain but the elves as well.

Bronwë had no desire to spend the rest of her evening trapped in this garden—pleasant as it may be—so she rose.

The rustling of leaves gave away her location for Thorin whirled in place, fixing her with a glare poisonous enough to set her heart to racing. He allowed his arms to fall away; his hands fisting. "Did Lord Elrond send you to spy on me?"

Bronwë felt her cheeks heat as mortification settled over her. _What would mother say if she caught me in such a scenario? What would Elladan and Elrohir say?_

"Hardly, my Lord," she retorted tartly. "I am not in a habit of listening to private conversations but you stumbled into my garden. I did not follow you."

Thorin's glare slowly bled away leaving him with a mulish, though abashed expression. "I thought all of this belonged to Lord Elrond," he swept his arm toward the valley vista.

A slow smile spread over Bronwë's face. "Lord Elrond is far more gracious than you could ever imagine. While the land is indeed under his control, this small patch he relinquished to my sister and me. Though I am a poor steward. We stand in Lady Gilraen's garden."

The dwarf's arm dropped and he snorted.

She reached into her jacket and held out a small leather pouch. "Lord Elrond is not telling you a falsehood. Supplies are hard to procure, for the elves support themselves while lending much aid to not only the Rangers but many impoverished Dúnedain across Eriador."

"What is this?" Thorin questioned as his eyes narrowed on the pouch.

Bronwë smiled. "Longbottom Leaf."

Suspicion colored the dwarf's gaze. "How much will it cost me?"

"I want nothing from you," Bronwë stated as Thorin slowly held out his hand. She settled the pouch in his palm. "Take this with my blessing and thanks for your kindness to my nephew."

Thorin stared at her. "Estel is a remarkable boy for a child of Men. He holds no prejudice."

"Gilraen is a remarkable mother," Bronwë countered with a grin. "And Lord Elrond has proved a loving father to Estel. They deserve much credit but I believe Estel has a pure spirit. I only hope he stays that way."

"Coming to maturity takes away much innocence," Thorin agreed.

She merely nodded and bowed her head out of respect before leaving the dwarf in silence.

Thorin stared after her. "A woman who smokes a pipe and speaks with truth and fearlessness is rare. She would make a worthy bride for a dwarf if intermarriage was looked upon favorably." He smiled and shook his head before turning his attention to the view.

 **-…-**

The Dúnedain voices were raised in song—strong and harmonious and as raucous as any tavern that catered to dwarves in the Blue Mountains. The succulent scent of roasted lamb mingled with ale and old wood from the spotless floors, walls, and roof. Heat was near overwhelming from a combination of a roaring fire on the massive hearth across the room and all the men crammed in the large hall.

Only Kíli, Fíli, Nori, and Ori were feasting with the Rangers on this night.

Dori remained behind in their rooms enjoying a quiet spot of tea with Óin. Glóin, Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur decided to roast sausages on the terrace behind the Dúnedain hall. Where Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin had gotten to Kíli hadn't a clue.

He watched as a comely serving woman smiled broadly at Fíli. She bent low enough that the dwarves could see straight down her bodice. To Kíli's shock, his brother stared boldly at the woman's ample charms.

She giggled as Fee winked before moving on to the next table.

"I think she fancies you, lad," Nori stated before he took a long pull from his tankard. "Are you going to have a go?"

Kíli stared at his brother.

He shrugged and picked up his now full tankard. "I haven't decided yet. With Wilwarin back in Mithlond, I needn't worry she might become pregnant."

Ori frowned. "Was she barren?"

Memory of the rumors surrounding Bronwë swirled in Kíli's mind. _You're welcome to Mistress Bronwë, Master Dwarf, if she'll have you. The woman is barren as the Harad desert. None here want her_. The smirk on the tall young Ranger's face made Kíli's hands contract into fists.

Though Ereg had baited him three weeks earlier, Kíli still recalled the incident with disgust.

"No," Fee shook his golden head before taking a long draught of ale. "Wilwarin was a friend of an Elf herbalist. She confided in me that a combination of herbs keep a woman from conceiving."

Kíli pushed back from the table and stood. "Take care, Fíli. Women are not mere toys for male amusement. They have feelings that run as strongly as our own."

His brother gazed up at him while Nori and Ori politely averted their eyes.

A look of confusion knotted Fíli's brow. "I have done nothing wrong. If the lass decides to bed down with me, I fail to see how that makes me a villain."

"What about Neniel and your shameless flirtation with her just a week ago?"

Fíli laughed. "The girl flirted with me, _naddith_. I had no intention of seducing her or being seduced. We enjoyed a few dances and laughs. Neniel is in love with that snobbish elf, Lindir. No harm done."

Shaking his head, Kíli backed away from the table. "I need some air." He ignored his brother calling to him and stalked out the door.

The collision took away his breath.

"You have my apologies…" Kíli looked into Bronwë's eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Her dark eyes filled with laughter. "I came to the hall for ale. Are you leaving so soon? The night is yet young."

"I have no taste for drink this night," he muttered.

Cocking her eyebrow, Bronwë studied his face. "You look ill at ease indeed. Will you walk with me?"

Kíli ran a hand through his hair and released a pent up breath. "I should enjoy a stroll. Perhaps the gardens?"

She snorted before winding her arm through his and leading him toward the one of the nearby waterfalls. "They are occupied and we are better served with the view from one of the bridges."

He was silent as she led him toward the cobblestone walkways and graceful arched bridges between the Dúnedain halls and Elrond's house. Once they reached a bridge looking over the gardens of Elrond, Bronwë drew to a stop.

She then sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the bridge.

Kíli lowered himself beside her and let his eyes caress the beauty of the Elven refuge. Never had he seen such a lovely place in all his days. The peace he had known here in the past four weeks left him with a sense of relief.

After dealing with the trolls and the horror of being pursued by an orc pack, Kíli came to realize the adventure he had longed for all his life was not what he thought it would be. Danger, yes he expected it, but not on this level.

 _At least not until we reached Erebor_ , he thought.

"What troubles you?" Bronwë asked, nudging his shoulder with hers playfully.

Kíli couldn't stop a smile from spreading over his face. "I am worried about what is coming when we continue our journey. Do not think me a coward, my Lady."

A very unladylike snort escaped her throat. "You, a coward? I should sooner think my mother a cave troll." Bronwë grew serious as she studied his face. "Kíli, promise me you will take great care as you and your kin travel through the wild. My heart has misgivings."

"I thought you did not have the gift of foresight as your mother and Gilraen do." She had shared much with him as they bonded through simple archery after the dwarves' arrival. Their friendship cemented by his realization she was genuinely kind and wanted nothing from him aside from his companionship.

Men were often filled with greed in their dealings with dwarves—all the while accusing his people of avarice. Kíli had seen with his own eyes the dark side of men as he grew up.

The Dúnedain, especially Bronwë, Gilraen, and Estel, had challenged his belief of the nature of men.

"I have no foresight," she replied quietly. "Orcs do not come this close to Imladris for they know the Elves here are strong. No orc since the days of Angmar have dared trespass on Elrond's realm. In my heart I believe you and your kin are being hunted."

A chill settled over him.

He ran his hands over his face before once more meeting Bronwë's gaze. "I have had the same thoughts."

The woman reached out and took one of his hands between her own. "I consider you my friend. Whether we've known one another only a month or three decades makes no difference. You carry a piece of my heart now and I would see you safe."

A roguish smile lit his face as took in the sincerity flooding Bronwë's eyes. He had the burning desire to make her laugh. The traces of fear in her gaze brought his protective instincts roaring to the fore. "Be careful with your words. Fíli would no doubt enjoy the thought of me claiming your heart. He is eager to see me paired off with an eligible maiden."

As he hoped, Bronwë laughed. Merriment danced in her eyes even as her smile faded. "I suspect he may not be so enthusiastic if he knew Heledhwen desired his younger brother."

Kíli could feel the blood draining from his face; a feeling of lightheadedness washing over him. Never had he fainted but he suspected this sensation was close.

Heledhwen…

The youngest of Bronwë's sisters was a beautiful maiden. She was only outshone by Gilraen herself. He felt his throat close up at the memory of slim white hands nimbly unbuttoning his trousers before sliding inside…

He swallowed thickly as he recalled the sweetness of Elrond's miruvor in his mouth and the warmth of Heledhwen's lips and tongue on his throat. Mortification settled over him. Only Gilraen had saved him from the young woman's machinations. The revelation Heledhwen sought a husband through any means necessary to escape her unhappiness in Rivendell made him feel a fool. Days had passed since the incident and he had thanked Mahal every one of them that Bronwë had not discovered his moment of weakness.

She was an honorable woman.

 _What would she think of me?_ Kíli wondered briefly. The idea of losing her friendship hurt him.

He struggled to concentrate. "There is no risk of my taking Heledhwen to wife."

Bronwë laughed again and relief washed over him. "I should hope not! I believe you intelligent enough to avoid my sister's grasp."

"I wish to fall in love," Kíli had no idea why the words tumbled so freely from his lips when the admission was one he could not fully confide to his brother. "To pledge my body and my heart to my One and have no other."

"No," Bronwë answered with a soft smile. "I think you are a good soul, Kíli. My hope is that one day you will find the happiness you seek."

He squeezed her hand. "Do you hope to marry one day?"

She was silent for a long time; her eyes wistful. "My heart is no different than any other woman's."

Kíli could feel her sadness and it made him wish to give her some sort of comfort. There was little he could do. Instead they sat together into the wee hours of the morning listening to the song the waterfalls played.

 **-…-**

Supplies were hard to come by—Elven waybread, dried, cured meats, bracing black tea, and dried fruits. Blankets and flint harder still as it was clear Thorin wished to leave without Elrond's blessing. After a discussion with Gilraen, Bronwë set about gathering what she could to help the dwarves.

Gilraen found the foodstuffs needed to supplement the dwarves' diet while Bronwë asked fellow Rangers for extra blankets and flint.

The arrows to replace those Kíli used against the orc pack and lost during the dwarves' flight to Imladris Bronwë replaced from her own stores.

Over the next two days Bronwë watched Thorin and the others closely. The surveillance paid off when, as dawn rose the third day after her conversation with Kíli, she caught sight of the dwarves headed east out of Imladris toward the Misty Mountains.

She returned to Gilraen and the pair quickly took the supplies they laid aside and followed the group.

"Do you know the path out of Imladris?" Bronwë called out breathlessly.

Thorin stopped walking and the other dwarves followed suit. He turned and a deep frown came over his face. "We have found a path and will follow it, Lady. There is no need for a guide."

Kíli and Fíli flanked their uncle with the others falling to the sides. The brothers grinned broadly and exchanged pleased glances.

Dwalin raised one eyebrow. "Are you coming along, lassie? Another archer would be welcome."

The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, looked horrified. "You cannot be serious! Dragging a lady along when you know the end game is facing a dragon? That is despicable!"

"I cannot," Bronwë stated. "Oaths to follow Elrohir and Elladan bind me as a Ranger in their Company."

Gilraen came to stand just behind Bronwë; her greater height overshadowing her sister. "I'm afraid you are on the wrong path, Lord Oakenshield." The quiet dignity with which Gilraen spoke captured attention as much as her stunning, near unspeakable beauty. "Continue in this direction and you shall find yourselves in Hollin."

Balin stepped away from the others and gave her a gentle smile. His eyes twinkled as he looked up at the Dúnadan woman. "We are honored by your presence, Lady Gilraen. The kindness with which you came to see us off is a balm to our spirits."

"We come bearing gifts," Gilraen stated as she stared the older dwarf in the eye. "Not much could be spared but we have some supplies to ease you on your way."

Bronwë watched the exchange in silent amusement. She suspected the old dwarf had a soft spot for her younger sister. Many did for Gilraen was as good as she was fair—few males of any race could resist even one of her smiles.

"I don't suppose you could point us in the right direction?" Balin asked as a few of the younger dwarves shouldered the burden of the sacks Gilraen and Bronwë presented. "We would be in your debt."

"Aye," Fíli muttered. "The blasted Elves have made all their paths looking the same."

Gilraen smiled. "To tell you would be to betray my host…" Bronwë stifled laughter as Gilraen's long, slim white forefinger pointed toward a rock-strewn path appearing not to be used for many moons. "I could not do such a thing."

Balin winked at her. "Indeed not, my Lady."

Still smiling, Gilraen approached the older dwarf and bent at the waist. Before Balin could utter a word she pressed her lips briefly to the crown of his head before pulling back. "May your journey be blessed, Master Balin. I pray to Elbereth herself you see success—all of you."

Two spots of crimson marked Balin's cheekbones and he wore a look of stunned surprise. He gave her a quick, jerky bow before returning to Thorin's side. Privately, Bronwë wondered if he would recover from the obvious shock.

Holding out the quiver of arrows, Bronwë settled the gift in Kíli's hands. "This is for you, my friend."

He stared for a moment at the quiver before looking into Bronwë's gaze. Surprise and appreciation swam in his dark eyes. "Bronwë, I cannot take this. I have nothing to give you in return." Kíli had explained gift giving between friends in dwarf culture was not unheard of; though if one friend presented a gift the recipient must present the giver with something in return.

A smile traced Bronwë's lips. "You are my friend and I wish for you to be well armed. I ask for nothing save that when you are settled in your halls we might meet again under more auspicious circumstances."

Kíli grinned, his eyes alight with joy. "When I am settled in Erebor, I will call for you and you will see how the dwarves entertain their guests."

Despite her misgivings, Bronwë laughed. "I should like to see this very much indeed. Fare thee well, Master Kíli."

He gave her a pretty half-bow, careful not to dump the contents of the quiver before returning to Fíli's side.

For her part, Bronwë came to stand beside her sister. The pair watched as Thorin led the others up the rocky, winding path Gilraen had indicated.

"Master Balin seems rather taken with you," Bronwë teased.

Gilraen did not smile was they watched the line of dwarves fading out of sight. A sigh escaped her throat. "I fear for all his nobility and goodness of spirit, he will not come to a good end."

A sudden chill settled on her shoulders. Bronwë cast a sideways glance up at her younger sister. "Did you see something?"

"Not as mother does," Gilraen replied softly; her gaze fixed on a point in the distance. "I simply see Balin in a dark place… surrounded by an endless void filled with shadow."

"What of Kíli?" Bronwë forced the question from her lips.

Gilraen's brow knotted. "From the moment I made the acquaintance of Thorin and his nephews I had a sense of…" She struggled a moment as though trying to find the right words. "I cannot accurately describe the feeling save that I could not see past the here and now."

Though Gilraen was not a seer as was their mother, Ivorwen, she had a measure of foresight. For her to see and feel nothing was unusual and worry poured over Bronwë.

She tried to smile as they turned back toward Elrond's house. "Perhaps the Valar have something special in mind for those three. Aulë zealously guards his kindred it is said."

Gilraen gave a nod and managed a smile. "Perhaps you are right."


	10. Fire and Ice

**A deleted scene from chapter 19 of _A Change of Fortunes_.**

* * *

He was on his way back to the Prancing Pony, shaking his head in amusement at Fíli's misery, when he nearly walked into someone.

The somewhat large fellow, with shaggy hair to his shoulders and (sadly) a fuller beard than his own, stumbled drunkenly out of a doorway with a thick, half-eaten carrot in one hand. Kíli steadied him as well as he could before the man mumbled something unintelligible and walked off, then looked toward the establishment the fellow had exited.

It was a brothel, given the highly suggestive clothing worn by the females he could now glimpse through the large window by the door. Quite likely the one his brother had paid visit to. In spite of himself Kíli found his attention drawn, and he watched the people inside somewhat mesmerized by the way the "ladies" of the house seemed to hold sway over the men. It seemed they had only to bat their eyes, purse their lips, or pretend to simper and the man on whom they were focused would do or give them whatever they desired.

Was this the fantasy Fee had spoken of? If that were so, it did not seem a very fulfilling one.

"Thinking of going for a tumble?"

Kíli nearly jumped out of his skin at the deep rumble that came from his left. "Mahal's hammer, Dwalin! How the _razâd_ can a brute like you sneak up on a dwarf like that?"

The warrior's thick arms were crossed over his chest and a smirk was about his face. "It pays to have a marketable skill set."

A moment of silence passed, and then, "Well? Are you?"

Kíli glanced to the window once more to find one of the girls actually staring at him. She crooked her finger and smiled invitingly, but he could only give a half-hearted smile in return before he shook his head and turned to walk away.

Dwalin fell into step beside him. Silence was their companion for a minute or so until Kíli boldly asked, "Have you ever lain with a daughter of men, Dwalin?"

"In my youth, lad."

"Was it just to get rid of your virginity, or did you do it for the pleasure?"

Dwalin glanced sideways at him. "To be perfectly honest, a little of both. The first step I ever took into a Men's brothel was to satisfy my curiosity, to see what the talk was all about. And yes, I wanted to give in to my lust like any other young dwarrow—I had desires that could not be fully sated otherwise. Every time I went back or visited another, it was purely for the pleasure."

From the corner of his eye, Kíli noted a sly smile beginning to play over the other dwarf's lips. "There are some females of that…profession…who do what they do not because they've no other choice, but because they truly enjoy pleasuring males. Those are the ones to seek, Kíli, should you ever give it a go. Not only do they take the time to learn what males enjoy in the bedding, but they're the best ones to teach you what is likely to please other females."

"Do you think the ladies swap stories, asking each other what their…visitors…did to them, to see if there's anything new they'd care to try?"

A loud guffaw was his immediate answer, and then, "I think females of any species or station are as like to talk of sex as males are."

"Fíli rather enjoys the girls," Kíli said then.

"Old news, that."

"It's nearly the only thing we don't have in common—that kind of pleasure seeking simply isn't for me."

Dwalin snorted softly. "That's no news to me, either."

"I want to fall in love, Dwalin," he confessed next, surprising himself even as the words passed through his lips. He'd only ever said that to Bronwë.

His companion stopped and turned to him. "Do you think the rest of us don't?"

Kíli gestured toward the Prancing Pony, still a block away. "I know it's the last thing on Thorin's mind," he said, then tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, noting there were a few stars sparkling between the clouds.

"I thought I'd found her. There was just something about Tauriel… I really thought she could be my One."

Looking back to Dwalin again, he added, "What if my survival wasn't the only thing changed when Azog was resurrected? What if Tauriel and I were meant to be together, and that destiny was lost to us because of the fecking Necromancer and his black magic?"

Dwalin's arms dropped slowly to his sides as he heaved a sigh. "Meant to be does not always mean meant to last, laddie. If you want my honest opinion—"

Kíli frowned. "I swear, if you say no dwarf should lay with an elf I will throat punch you. I got enough of that from Thorin."

An eyebrow rose on the other dwarf's face. "You and Tauriel would never have lasted," he said after a moment. "Oh, to be sure it would have been a passionate affair, but some flames that are born are doomed to die."

Frowning again, Kíli said, "I don't get your meaning."

"Kíli, our people were born from rock in the fires of the Great Forge. In our souls that fire burns eternal—'tis why Mahal calls us back to him when we die. Tauriel also has a fire in her, unlike any elf I've ever known. But fire cannot be calmed by fire—it can only be checked by ice. And so as our Maker's bride keeps his fire tame, keeps it from burning out of control and consuming the world, we must each of us seek the ice to match our fire. You and Tauriel would have burned each other out because both of you are spirits born of fire."

Never in all his life had Kíli heard Dwalin speak so philosophically. But then neither had he ever had such a deeply personal conversation with the other dwarf before. It was something of a pleasant surprise to know that he felt as keenly, thought as strongly, as any other.

But still he did not quite understand. "So what are you saying? That the reason the dwarf population is dwindling is because we're all born of fire?"

"That I cannot say," Dwalin replied with a shrug, "though it is certainly a possibility—a very sad possibility. The point I am trying to make, however, is that while I don't doubt your feelings for Tauriel were genuine, you should not discount the possibility that like she, you might yet meet the One who completes you. It does not do to dwell on dreams, lad, and forget to live."

 _Move on with your life_ were words left unspoken, but Kíli heard them just the same. What Dwalin had said felt as a cut to the bone, but an old saying was that the truth hurt. And to think that even had he lived he and Tauriel might not be together now…

Maybe Dwalin and Fíli were right. Maybe it would not have worked out between them in the end. But acknowledging that didn't mean he was ready to move on to another, did not even mean his One was still out there, waiting to be found.

If she had ever existed at all.

Heaving a great sigh, Kíli started off again, and said nothing more until they'd reached the inn and Dwalin's hand was on the doorknob. Something the older dwarf had said before had made him curious enough to ask,

"Have you ever been in love, Dwalin? I mean, did you ever think you'd met your One?"

Dwalin turned back to him. "Aye, once. 'Twas a dwarrow lass more beautiful than any I'd ever known. But she had an intimidating, over-protective brother and a father who suffered no fools, and by the time I'd worked up the courage to seek permission to court her, she'd met your father."


	11. The Ranger Arrives

**Once again, I am truly excited to bring you all another piece by the lovely (and deeply missed) Daniella Blue that she had written for _Entwined_. So honored and humbled that her family is allowing me to continue sharing her work featuring her OC Bronwë. I do hope you enjoy this as much as I did. **

**This piece takes place a good five months before** **Dáin informed the Company of Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli's resurrection in chapter 43 of _A Change of Fortunes_. **

* * *

**Mid-March, 2946**

-...-

The journey from Imladris to Erebor proved tiring both emotionally and physically.

Trekking alone over so many miles across the Misty Mountains, across plains and the Anduin, before rounding the head of Mirkwood left Bronwë exhausted. She was dirty and reeked. Quick dips in frigid ponds and chilly brooks weren't enough to keep her clean.

As did most Rangers, Bronwë had the ability to go unseen by others if she chose. Trained by Elrohir and Elladan, twin sons of Elrond, Bronwë managed to avoid orcs on the trip.

The sight of the legendary homeland of the dwarves jutting toward the grey sky brought tears to her eyes. In the depths of the freezing northern winter, the tears froze to her cheeks as Sadron picked his way across the valley leading from Dale to Erebor. She shivered as the wind shifted and hit her full in the face.

Sadron nickered and tossed his head angrily at the freezing onslaught.

Bronwë reached down and patted the bay gelding's neck. "We're almost there, _mellon_. I promise you a nice bag of oats and a warm blanket."

Before the great gates was a host of dwarf guards.

As she neared, one of the dwarves approached with a great war axe in hand. His face was hideously scarred and one eye was missing. A mane of wild, dark hair surrounded his ruined visage and he wore his soldier's garb with pride.

"Kin I help ye, lassie?"

She pulled Sadron's reins and he stopped with a loud snort. "Indeed, good sir! I have come seeking an audience with the King under the Mountain. My name is Bronwë, and I am a Ranger of the North."

"What business does a Ranger of the North have with the King under the Mountain?" the captain retorted. "As far as I know, Dáin is no friend to the Men of Eriador."

Irritation flickered in Bronwë's veins. She was in no mood to be turned away from Erebor when she was so close to her goal. Years had passed since that no-good scoundrel, Nori, had passed through Imladris as a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Pain lanced her heart at the memory of Kíli smiling at her in the bright summer sun.

She brushed aside the memory of her friend in order to concentrate on the matter at hand.

Nori had looked so familiar that Bronwë was certain she'd seen him before, though he denied it fervently. 'Twas only after he moved on with Oakenshield that she discovered he was a wanted dwarf. There were warrants seeking his arrest from Mithlond to Bree to the Shire to Dunland.

Bronwë had two dozen warrants in her pack scribed on velum to prevent smearing. She was bound and determined to serve the little swine. Nori was going back to Eriador to answer for his crimes if Bronwë had to drag him kicking and screaming.

"True enough," she allowed. "I carry a letter of greeting from Lord Elrond of Rivendell to King Dáin and warrants for a criminal I believe is sheltering in Erebor."

The Captain's face split into an angry grimace. "Are ye slandering dwarrow honor, girl?! I'll not stand for it!"

Bronwë chewed at her lip; desperate to hold back the scathing reply perched on her tongue. "No, I am not. I merely speak the truth. Kindly allow me to deliver my missive from Lord Elrond and serve the warrants I carry. I will be gone soon enough."

"I shall do no such thing!" He roared. "Get yer sorry arse back to Dale."

She swore like an orc beneath her breath. "Summon Balin, son of Fundin, here and I shall wait. He is a friend of mine."

"Lord Balin should sooner turn into a raven than prove a friend to a slanderer!" the captain retorted. "Stay here and I shall fetch him. Move from this spot and you will be slain."

Over the years Bronwë had grown accustomed to threats. She merely nodded in reply.

The Dwarf turned on his heel and stomped back toward the entrance to Erebor. He shouted out a few orders in the guttural tongue of his people and the remaining guards quickly surrounded her with axes and swords in hand.

Sadron gave a disgusted snort with a toss of the head.

Bronwë reached down and stroked the horse's neck. "Relax, _mellon_. This will all be over soon."

 **-...-**

The wind was slicing through Bronwë like an ice-cold blade when the sour-faced dwarf returned with Balin in tow. Nearly an hour had passed. Bronwë shivered in misery and drew her cloak closer. The older dwarf stumbled toward her with shock on his normally affable face.

Large, dark eyes went wide beneath bushy snow-white brows. "Bronwë! I never thought to see you again!"

She bowed in the saddle. "I am pleased to see you once more, Lord Balin."

He took a step forward, a smile softening his mouth. "Ah, lassie, I only wish the lads were here to greet you instead of me. Kíli cared for you deeply." Balin hesitated. "There were some of us who thought you two might come together more intimately."

A blush crept over Bronwë's cheeks. "I loved Kíli as a friend, a brother even. We were not suited for more." The handsome, devilishly charming young dwarf would have made any female—no matter the race—happy. He was as good and kind as he was brave.

Hot tears pricked her eyes. "I am so very sorry for your loss of Lord Thorin, as well as Fíli and Kíli." Despite the fact years had passed, she still felt the loss of Kíli like a keen lance.

For Bronwë was reserved and seldom gave her heart to any beyond her family or the elves surrounding her as she grew up.

Sadness shaded Balin's eyes. "Thank you, lass. Losing all three of them was a grievous blow indeed. The only positive is that they are with our ancestors in Mahal's Great Forge. There is some comfort to be had at the notion."

Bronwë thought of the intricate silk banner Gilraen had crafted over the course of many months. The intricate beading and threadwork rivaled that of Arwen Evenstar, who was away in Lórien. A sapphire background boasted the stars and hammer that were traditional symbols for Durin's line and gold thread gleamed from the silk with such brilliance it seemed as though stars had fallen from the heavens to rest upon the banner.

-...-

 _"I spent many hours in labor for our friend, Lord Thorin." Gilraen's smile was sad as Lindír left them. The news of Thorin and his nephews' deaths as well as the freedom of Erebor from the dragon still lingered in the air. "I will ask Lord Elrond to send the banner to King Dáin when relations are formally established between Rivendell and Erebor."_

 _She folded the banner with great care and placed it in a velvet lined case. Care had started to come upon Gilraen even at her early age—delicate lines coming in at the corner of her eyes and mouth. Bronwë knew her sister was too young to show such signs of age for a Dúnadan of the royal line._

 _Worry filled Bronwë and she reached out to stroke her shoulder. "You take the hurts of the world upon yourself, Gilraen. This is not healthy for you."_

 _Gilraen the Fair was as beautiful as an elf maiden—the fairest of any mortal woman to be born in the waning years after Sauron's fall. Dark-haired with bright, knowing eyes filled with the sad knowledge gleaned from the history of her people and the world she had witnessed deteriorate._

 _"I have no choice," Gilraen answered. "I feel too keenly and both sadness and joy press upon me. There is bitter grief in my heart for Lord Thorin as well as Fíli and Kíli. Goodness lost should be mourned." Tears glittered in her eyes as she closed the case over the banner and ran her hands over it. "I must share this solemn news with Estel… He will be much grieved for he had great respect for Thorin. Please excuse me."_

 _Bronwë watched as Gilraen gathered her skirts in hand and fled Elrond's hall._

 _The moment Gilraen was gone, Bronwë collapsed to her knees before the roaring fireplace. She dissolved into tears; her weeping near uncontrollable. Kíli's face loomed before her—smiling and jolly as he had been as they practiced archery together. It didn't matter they had only known one another a month, for they had opened their souls to each other and become bound together as though friends for decades._

 _"Weeping is justified under the circumstances," Lord Elrond's rich voice washed over her. "You should not be ashamed to feel, Bronwë. Your friends have passed beyond the sea. I am heartily sorry their fate proved tragic." He helped her stand; his own face held shades of sadness._ "Beleg i ben dhannen." _Mighty are the fallen._

 _Bronwë wept as Lord Elrond held her and whispered words of solace in Sindarin._

-...-

She blinked and returned to the present. "There is much comfort in the thought they are with their people and maker." Clearing her throat, Bronwë turned her face toward Balin. "I bring a letter from Lord Elrond to your king along with a gift."

"And?" Balin prompted with a smirk. "I hear tell there is so much more."

"Aye," she answered. "I hold warrants from Eriador for a certain dwarf holed up within this mountain."

Irritation settled on Balin's features. "Could you not ignore said warrants? Lass, I know you to possess a kind nature. Forgiveness and reconciliation are in short supply here in Middle-earth."

Bronwë shivered again and watched her breath mist in the cold air. "I know, but justice cannot be denied. Long have these jurisdictions waited for redress. To deny them is not in my nature."

A long, tired sigh escaped the dwarf. "Fair enough. Let the lads take your horse. They will stable him in comfort while you have an audience with Dáin." He spoke again as Bronwë slid from her saddle and took her travel packs from Sadron. "Mahal help you."

Bronwë shouldered the packs and wondered if perhaps she should have stayed in Eriador as Elladan and Elrohir advised.

 **-...-**

The glory of Erebor had not been exaggerated. The stone floors and walls were polished to a high sheen resembling the finest granite. Carvings of geometric shapes and runes covered the walls along with high lanterns casting greenish light with near magical precision. The ceilings were so high Bronwë could only see shadows high above.

She followed Balin all the while staring at the dwarrow passing by.

The dwarves were as varied as the designs carved into Erebor. Red-haired, raven-haired, some blonde; pale-skinned, some swarthy, others ruddy but all bearded with muscular, if short, frames. They stared at her in return with expressions ranging from curiosity to joviality to outright hostility.

After what seemed an eternity, Balin pushed open a great set of doors leading into an endless cavern. Bridges and columns of stone all led to a large center platform holding a large throne hewed of rock.

Bronwë's mouth fell open.

"Be careful to hold your tongue until Dáin gives you permission to speak." Balin wiped a gloved hand over his mouth. "The proper respect must be shown to the King under the Mountain. Dwarrow do not take kindly to uppity mortals."

Schooled by her parents, Arathorn, Lord Elrond, and Elladan and Elrohir in proper etiquette, Bronwë knew what was expected. True, she was not versed in dealing with dwarf leadership but respect crossed all lines.

"I understand," she replied.

Balin patted her shoulder before drawing back. "Follow me, lass. I'll make the necessary introductions."

She trailed behind him as he led her across the closest bridge. Cool air brushed over her face, giving Bronwë a sense of being surrounded by a void. The packs felt heavier with each step forward she took. Part of her considered how different her reception might be had Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survived.

A large group of dwarves surrounded the raised dais of the throne.

The dwarf seated on the throne was large with a massive beard and long locks of striking copper hair dusted with argent threads. He wore a massive crown unlike any Bronwë had ever seen. He radiated power even while wearing simple, though rich garb. There was a scowl on his face as he listened to two dwarves argue passionately in Khuzdul.

Bronwë caught sight of Glóin's auburn head close to a younger dwarf with a long auburn mane and braided beard wearing a glower as he stared at her. None of the other Company members were present.

Dáin's dark eyes shifted from the arguing dwarves to Balin. "Thank Mahal! I cannae bear one more word, lads!" He pointed at one of the dwarves. "You take yer hog back!" Looking at the other dwarf, Dáin grimaced. "And you take yer coin back and stop harassing yer neighbor or by all we hold holy, I'll have yer bollocks! Now get out!"

The two dwarves fled the angry king's presence.

Shaking his head, Dáin turned his full attention to Balin. "Why is a daughter of Men in the mountain? Bard has made no mention of sending one of his people."

Balin smiled and bowed. "My King, please allow me to introduce Bronwë of Imladris. She has traveled far to bring you word from Lord Elrond."

Dáin leaned back against the throne and stared at her with cold, calculating eyes. "A lover of mischievous sprites!" he spat before his gaze bore into her. "I expect yer next stop will be to that damnable woodland elf who fancies himself a king."

Bronwë remained silent.

"Have you nothing to say?" Dáin demanded.

Balin gave her an encouraging nod.

Taking a deep breath, Bronwë spoke. "I am a Ranger of the North," she began, and surprise colored Dáin's harsh features. "Lord Elrond bid me to travel here bearing letters and gifts for Your Majesty." Producing the parchments and intricately wrapped parcel Elrond had prepared for the King under the Mountain, she gave the items to Balin. "It is also true I bear similar letters and gifts for both Lord Bard and Lord Thranduil."

Dáin's lips twisted. "At least you are honest. Yer burden to me is delivered. Is there anythin' else?"

Bronwë's mind flashed to Gilraen's banner. She dismissed the idea of presenting such a gift to this rough dwarf. Her sister had fashioned it for Thorin and his heirs as a symbol of friendship between the Dúnedain of the North and Thorin. "I have also come on official business as a Ranger."

An expressionless visage confronted her from the throne. She suspected Dáin was one hell of a gambler.

"Is that so?" he questioned in a clipped, harsh tone. "Do elaborate."

Balin gave her a quick nod.

She took a deep breath before continuing. "I come bearing official arrest warrants for Nori, a member of Thorin Oakenshield's Company. He is in this mountain and must answer for his crimes."

Though unsurprised, Balin shot a sad, disappointed look in her direction.

Gasps and mutterings of outrage sounded from all around.

Dáin wore an outraged expression. "Nori! He is a trusted member of my council! What crime has he committed?"

Glóin barked, "Traitor! Nori offered you friendship and you stab him in the back!"

She ignored him. Justice was all—without it civilization was lost. "Master Nori has been accused of thievery in Mithlond…"

"HA!" Dáin shouted as he surged to his feet. "The filthy lies of elves!"

"Never trust an elf!" cried the younger, auburn-haired dwarf beside Glóin in a shockingly deep, powerful voice.

Bronwë waited for the shouts of enraged dwarves to die down before continuing. "I also have warrants from Bree, the Shire, and Dunland." She rummaged through her pack to produce the velum warrants tied neatly into scrolls… dozens of them. "As you can see, Your Highness, there is many to choose from."

Shock washed over Dáin's features. He stared at the multitude of scrolls she handed to the gobsmacked Balin. "How many exactly?"

Bronwë calculated in her head. "Seven and twenty with rumors of three more in Rohan, though I had not the time to travel there."

Dáin was silent; his face suffused in anger. "You cannae be serious!"

"Serious as death, Majesty," she replied softly. "Do you not see the implications of sheltering Nori?"

"You vile, treacherous wench!" shouted the younger dwarf beside Glóin. "Have you no shame? Coming here under the guise of friendship in order to deceive and trick! Nori is a good dwarf! He helped win back our homeland from that blasted dragon."

Annoyance reared its ugly head as Bronwë turned to him. "I have done nothing to deserve your abuse. Master Nori brought this upon himself by stealing."

The dwarf crossed massive, muscled arms over his powerful chest. "We cannot trust this woman! She is a follower of elves—and elves are our enemy. Did they not hunt us for sport when the sun first dawned? Do not forget the betrayal of the Woodland Realm when the dragon first came to Erebor!"

Cries of agreement rose up around them. Buoyed by the support, he pressed on. "Men have oppressed our people for their own greedy, selfish purposes. Do not forget their perfidy!"

Bronwë was normally calm, but his words were gouging chinks in the coolness of the armor she wore. "Hateful dwarfling! Your mother ought to drop your breeches and spank your bottom blue!"

Glóin's eyes nearly popped out. "See here! My son is no dwarfling!"

The son glared at her. "Just you try to drop my drawers, missy! I will unleash the full temper of Durin's Folk upon you!"

"Childish boy," Bronwë replied. "One day your wise lip will get the best of you."

He took a step forward so they stood toe to toe and despite Bronwë being the taller—at least four inches—the glowering, enraged dwarf exuded more power. He had dark eyes boiling with anger and a generous, sculpted mouth beneath his moustache. His beard reached mid-chest and was gathered into one long braid capped by a great silver bead engraved with runes. As many dwarves, he possessed a strong nose and carved cheekbones along with a broad forehead. He was clearly a warrior from his stance and dress along with the many weapons he had sheathed upon his person.

"Perhaps, lassie, you ought to rethink your own manner of speech," he retorted with barely restrained rage. "I thought elf lovers to be intellectual and reserved, only to find you spiteful with all the foul temper of a shrew."

Bronwë jerked her head back as though struck.

" _Who would want to bed such a sour-faced shrew?_ " Ereg's voice echoed in the reaches of her mind. " _I should sooner burn off my own testicles!_ "

Balin stepped into the fray wearing a frown. "Gimli, I believe that will suffice, laddie. Pay him no mind, Bronwë, for he is young and cursed with a hot-head for temperament."

A muscle jerked in Gimli's jaw. "She is not to be trusted, Balin! If this is the woman Kíli counted as a friend he was deceived. I pity him for he must be deeply grieved at the Great Forge."

"Enough," Balin pronounced in a grave voice as he pulled Bronwë toward the doors. "With your permission, Majesty, I would see to this woman's comfort for the hour is late to be sending her to Dale."

Dáin nodded wearily. "As you will."

The last view Bronwë had of Gimli was his sneer of derision as his father pulled him in the opposite direction.

She faced forward and squared her shoulders before following Balin.

 **-...-**

Dáin granted a short audience to Bronwë and Balin the next morning. He refused to issue an edict regarding Nori and instead demanded more time to explore the warrants. A week was requested and Bronwë swiftly agreed. For she needed to deliver the missives and gifts Elrond had sent for Thranduil and Bard.

Within an hour Bronwë stood in the reception room of King Bard's manor in Dale.

Though far smaller than the abodes of elves in Mithlond, Lórien, and Imladris, it was an impressive space and she could see the splendor of Dale of old in the bones of the rapidly rebuilding city. Sadron was comfortably stabled for the evening and Bronwë considered her words to Bard with great care.

The last thing she needed was another ill confrontation.

She frowned at the thought of this Gimli.

 _Vexing little turd_ , Bronwë thought as she ground her teeth.

"Bronwë! I am so pleased to see you!" Tauriel's musical, husky voice echoed through the room. "It has been such a long time!"

A smile blossomed over her face as she turned to take in the beautiful, copper-haired elf. "Milady," she dropped into a curtsey. "You look radiant. Marriage and motherhood have done wonders."

Tauriel towered over Bronwë by almost a foot. On this day she wore a simple linen gown of pale green with an ivory girdle embroidered skillfully with a vine pattern that appeared real; the belt was set high over an abdomen round with early to mid-pregnancy. She boasted no jewels save her wedding ring and allowed her silken curtain of hair to fall freely over her shoulders.

"You are too kind in your compliments," Tauriel retorted with a broad smile. "But you are right I am very happy. What brings you to Dale?"

Bronwë produced Elrond's letter and the package meant for Bard and Tauriel. "Lord Elrond bid me to deliver these items into your care. I have done the same for Lord Dáin and tomorrow I leave for the Woodland Realm to bear Elrond's tokens for Thranduil."

Tauriel took the letter and prettily wrapped parcel and set both aside. A gentle expression crossed her face; a line appeared between her delicate eyebrows. "You are in luck after such a long, dangerous journey."

"Am I?" Bronwë questioned. "Please explain."

A tinkling laugh escaped the female elf's throat. "Lord Thranduil is coming to Dale on the morrow. You have no need to travel." She reached out and caught Bronwë's hand between her own. "Exhaustion and grief are written on your brow. Stay with us and enjoy our hospitality."

To do otherwise would be foolhardy.

Bronwë smiled and squeezed Tauriel's slim, cool hands. "Thank you, my lady. I accept your gracious offer."

"Come," Tauriel led Bronwë from the room. "My son is still slumbers but Bard is awake as is Tilda and Bain. I will make the formal introductions before arranging a room for you."

Bronwë followed with a lightness of heart dawning that she had not experienced since the last time she had been in Tauriel's presence.

 **-...-**

"Abominable wretch!" Gimli snorted as he drank deeply of the rich ale in his pewter tankard. "How dare she insult me in such a manner! She called me a dwarfling and threatened to spank me like a child."

The noise of the tavern in Erebor's depths was deafening. Roasted mutton and ale perfumed the air as laughter from raucous, celebrating dwarves and those trading stories.

Bofur stared at him with an uplifted brow rife with disbelief. "Are you certain this is the same Bronwë? The woman I knew was quiet as a dormouse with rarely a peep to be heard, unless she was in Fíli and Kíli's company. Insults? No, I heard naught from her lips while we were in Rivendell."

The flame-haired Bombur scratched his chin. "Honestly Gimli, if this be the same Bronwë, you must have made her angry indeed."

Slouching in his chair, Gimli rested his chin in his palm. "She threatened to arrest Nori for Mahal's sake! This is supposedly the same friend of my cousin Kíli. He would never take up with someone capable of treachery."

Bofur arched one eyebrow as he stroked his goatee. "You _are_ aware Nori is a thief, yes?"

Embarrassment colored Gimli's cheeks scarlet. "Well… er… aye…" He cleared his throat. "Nori is my friend and a hero of our people. Whatever he did in the past needs to be buried and left alone."

"Oh aye! Nori _is_ a hero—and he'll pinch your coin purse in the blink of an eye," Bofur stated in a wry, teasing voice. "He just can't help himself. Can he, Bombur?"

A sour look crossed the obese dwarf's face. "No. He stole Ithór's collection of Iron Hills copper coins just last week. If he wasn't an asset to Dáin, I have no doubt Nori would find himself a resident of one of Erebor's many gaol cells."

Gimli flinched under the blatant truth of the Ur brothers' words. "Whether or not Nori has an unfortunate tendency of sticky fingers is beside the point."

Bofur and Bombur stared at him wearing twin expressions rife with dubious disbelief.

Under their withering glances, Gimli cleared his throat before taking another deep draft of ale. He felt a moment of shame—albeit brief—upon imagining Kíli's reaction to his friend being verbally assaulted before King Dáin. Kee would have boxed Gimli's ears. He loved and cherished females of all races and any sort of disrespectful display toward the fairer sex was dealt with harshly by Kíli.

Bofur drank deeply and wiped foam from his moustache before speaking. "Describe this Bronwë to us. Perhaps she is not the same Dúnadan we met in Rivendell."

Gimli gave a half-hearted shrug. "She is a scrawny creature with a mass of dark, tangled knots for hair and pale, sickly features. Her face was all angles and sharp edges with no softness to recommend her at all." He hesitated. "Although she had a pair of very fine, dark eyes with a piercing gaze… as though she had seen much. Perhaps too much."

Bofur's brow wrinkled beneath the wide brim of his hat. "Doesn't sound a lick like the Bronwë we knew."

"Aside from the eyes," Bombur chimed in. "She did have lovely eyes, but sad. Kíli's friend was not a beauty but she was pretty. Was she not, _nadad_?"

Bofur nodded. "Indeed, Bronwë was attractive for a mortal woman. She was too smooth-faced for my taste without any real bosom to speak of, though she had a perfectly rounded rear. Fíli made a comment alluding to her backside to Kíli and nearly received a thorough thrashing for it. Fee always was an admirer of a pretty arse."

Gimli nodded glumly. He missed Fíli and Kíli. The pair were more than his cousins—they had been his best friends and as close to older brothers as Gimli was ever going to get. He was raw from the loss. Burning tears sprang to his eyes and he blinked them back. Clearing his throat, Gimli took another draft of ale.

"I mourn them," Gimli stated in a throaty voice. "I miss those two pillocks more than any of you can imagine."

A sad smile crossed Bofur's mouth. "Lad, we know."

He scrubbed a hand over his face before standing. "No matter whether this Bronwë of the Dúnedain was a friend of Kíli's or not—she is a traitor to that friendship in pursuing Nori. You know in your hearts Kíli would be dismayed at her behavior."

Bombur heaved a sigh before glancing at Bofur. "No matter how much Kee cared for Bronwë, he would be upset with her attempt to arrest Nori."

"Aye," Bofur agreed. "Though I've no doubt he'd forgive her quick enough."

Gimli leveled a cool stare at the other two dwarves. "I promise on my honor to Mahal, I will foil this elf-loving wench in any way possible. My eyes are as keen as those of any fox…" Bofur released a snicker and quickly composed himself under Gimli's ice cold glare. "I will catch her in any underhanded plan she may have."

"What is underhanded about serving warrants on a suspected thief?" Bombur wondered aloud.

"This woman is an elf-lover! How can she not be underhanded?" Gimli thundered before mumbling under his breath as he stomped away.

Bofur finished his drink before looking to his brother. "Do you think perhaps young Gimli might have met his match?"

Bombur's dark eyes went wide; his tankard half-lifted to his lips. "Do you mean his One?"

The former miner gave a lazy shrug. "Perhaps, or maybe she's just meant to be a royal pain in Gimli's arse."

Bombur laughed at the thought.

 **-...-**

Lord Thranduil arrived with pomp and circumstance astride a young elk with a stream of guards and other elves behind him. Arrayed in charcoal silk with a maroon velvet cloak around his shoulders, he was as resplendent as Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel. He was too distant for Bronwë to see him properly and she caught a glimpse of pale gold hair. Thranduil disappeared into the midst of his people before entering into Bard's residence.

Leaning against a doorjamb down the cobblestone street, Bronwë blinked before rubbing her hands over her face wearily.

She had managed to wash thoroughly at Erebor and again this morning. Now instead of offensive, sour body odor, she smelled like clover and verbena from the soap Tauriel favored and insisted on gifting her. Clean clothes made her feel more normal though the dark, bruise-like rings around her eyes gave her a wan appearance.

"Why are you hiding in a doorway?"

Bronwë frowned and glanced at the young woman beside her, noting out of the corner of her eye the princess' bodyguard standing a discreet distance away. "I'm not hiding."

Tilda's large blue eyes widened. "No?"

"Certainly not," she retorted. "I am simply not fit to be seen by Lord Thranduil at present, Tilda." After only a few moments in the young royal's company, she had been given the missive that her title—or any other formal address—was to be used little and her name always. Bronwë surmised that she and her sister were still growing used to being princesses, even after near two years.

The girl's beautiful face took on a perplexed expression. "I don't understand why you harbor such a thought. I have found Lord Thranduil to be gracious, though distant."

Bronwë smiled. "Lord Thranduil is one of the oldest elves—one of the greatest—left in Middle-earth. He saw the glories and tragedies from the First Age on. To present myself in so ragged a manner would show a level of disrespect. I prefer to be well-rested before meeting him face to face."

"You think much of the elves," Tilda offered; her tone gentle but prodding. "Have you known many aside from Tauriel?"

She nodded and met Tilda's gaze. "I am a member of the Dúnedain and we cleave closely to the Firstborn for they are wise and good beyond measure. I have met Prince Legolas Thranduilion. Lord Elrond has lent aid to our people and his sons trained me as a Ranger."

The younger woman's gaze flickered to the bow and quiver of arrows strapped to Tilda's back. "Might I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Bronwë answered smoothly. "I would be happy to answer any questions you might have."

She hesitated before plunging forward. "How long will you be in Dale?"

Bronwë arched one dark eyebrow. "I have no idea, to be honest. Why?"

Tilda's eyes moved to the bow and arrows once more. "Tauriel said you are an excellent archer. Would you be willing to extend lessons to me?"

"King Bard has a reputation as a bowman that is unparalleled," she replied. "Queen Tauriel is also an archer of renown. Is there some reason you do not ask your family?"

Lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug, Tilda's eyes gazed down the street toward the Lonely Mountain. "I am curious about you and your people. I wonder if you might be willing to share stories with me about Kíli along with teaching me archery."

Bronwë noted the subdued, melancholy look on the young woman's face. "You knew Kíli?"

Tilda bit her bottom lip; her eyes taking on a pensive look. "We met in Lake-town. He was very brave despite being so ill. Tauriel loved him dearly once, before she knew and bonded with my father. To hear stories from his friend about Kíli and his brother would mean the world to me."

The pure sincerity in Tilda's words and eyes filled Bronwë with a sense of rightness in sharing with Bard's daughter. "I would be happy to take you on as a pupil. Will tomorrow be convenient?"

"Very," Tilda replied with happiness.

Bronwë winked and pushed herself away from the door. "I will see you on the morrow after breakfast. Today I will seek my rest after I look in on Sadron."

The pair traded waves before heading in separate directions with none the wiser that a narrowed pair of dark eyes watched them closely.

* * *

 **Note:** I hade to make a very few minor edits to make the piece fit better with the FToMe timeline, which is established better in my two stories. I read these scenes with Bronwë for the very first time today, and I enjoyed so much seeing hers and Gimli's first meeting, which I had heard tell of from Daniella some time before she passed. Imagine my joy on reading Bofur's comment about Fíli admiring a fine behind, as back when Daniella would have written it she'd have had no idea I'd establish Fee as a butt man. So very perfect that she somehow already knew.

If you hadn't already guessed from reading earlier pieces of Daniella's in this collection, she was going to pair Bronwë with Gimli. I do not know if their relationship has developed further in other scenes that will be coming to me in the future, but I really hope so. Otherwise I'll only get to allude to it in my own work, because no way would I try to write that story. I've too much respect for it being Daniella's project to make the attempt, but I'm happy she gave me permission long ago to feature Bronwë in cameos and that her family graciously allows me to continue sharing what she got written with you. I'm as certain as they are that Daniella would approve of me continuing to give what life I can Bronwë and Gimli's love story.


	12. Reasons

**Here is another wonderful piece by Daniella Blue featuring Bronwë. Takes place just a day after "The Ranger Arrives". Thanks ever so much to Emina, Daniella's sister, who has been so kind to send me more of her work to share with you all. The next will come sometime in January, and I'm told upcoming scenes will deal more with the romance between** **Bronwë and Gimli. I hope you're as eager to see how their love develops as I am!**

* * *

A night of uninterrupted slumber proved refreshing.

Bronwë tied back her mass of onyx waves with a simple leather tong before studying her reflection in the mirror. Pale, solemn features more plain than pretty gazed back at her. Large, dark eyes were ringed by purplish shadows only somewhat abated from the black bruises of recent days past. No, she was not a beauty by the standard of any race.

She gave a tremulous smile before turning away to dress.

Tugging on the deep brown leather breeches and boots Rangers favored, Bronwë bound her breasts before donning a new black tunic. She threw her newly laundered travel cloak over her shoulders before striding from the room.

Morning light poured through windows like liquid gold as Bronwë strode through the corridors. The heels of her boots clicked against the stone floors. She was silent while passing by servants that bobbed in curtsies.

"Mistress Bronwë!" The enthusiastic, youthful male voice hailing her drew Bronwë from her thoughts.

Bain was only a few feet behind her wearing a large smile. "Da sent me to fetch you. King Dáin and Lord Thranduil wish to speak with you."

She hesitated. As far as Bronwë was aware, the King under the Mountain was not scheduled to be in Dale. Shrugging, she managed a smile. "Of course, Prince Bain. Lead the way and I shall follow."

"Just Bain please," he corrected pleasantly.

Bain was a handsome youth and by all accounts quite brave. The tales of his involvement in the attack by Smaug on Lake-town followed by the Battle of Five Armies called him heroic. Given to bright smiles and yet introspective, he held the aspect of nobility.

He grinned and headed down a nearby corridor. "You look far more rested than the other day. How do you feel?"

"Better," she replied softly. "Milord, are you acquainted with Gimli, son of Glóin?"

Bain nodded; his dark wavy hair went askew at the movement. "I know him a little. Gimli seems a good sort though he has a reputation of being somewhat a…" He hesitated and blushed. "I suppose blowhard describes it best."

Bronwë successfully fought back a smirk. "Truly?"

"Oh yes," Bain stated as they rounded a corner. "Gimli is liked but he tends to run off at the mouth. He's been in a series of tavern skirmishes in Erebor and here in Dale. I hear tell he's had his arse handed to him on a few occasions."

The chuckle which escaped Bronwë's throat made Bain swallow thickly as his face turned an unflattering shade of puce. "I beg your pardon, ma'am! I ought not to have used such foul language in the presence of a lady."

Bronwë's eyes sparkled with humor. "I am hardly a lady, Bain. In a life surrounded by criminals and male Rangers, I assure you 'arse' is almost music to my ears."

Bain's face reflected shock at her words even as a laugh escaped his throat.

The appearance of King Bard severed the tenuous connection the pair began forging.

He offered his son a smile before treating Bronwë to a quick, respectful dip of the head. "Bronwë, Bain. Both of you are running late to breakfast. Lord Dáin and Lord Thranduil grow irritated waiting for the pleasure of your company."

Bronwë's eyebrows arched. "So Lord Thranduil is not known for patience?"

"Not particularly," Bard replied with a wry smile. "I beg of you both to hurry. Tauriel has diplomatic skills but I fear she will not keep the pair from one another's throats for long."

Bronwë fell into step behind Bard with a smirking Bain beside her.

"You look more rested," Bard offered. "I hope you have some talent with diplomacy. The Elvenking has been rather… testy." The suppressed disgust in his voice did not go unnoticed.

She cocked an eyebrow. "My brother-in-law knew Lord Thranduil prior to his death. In fact, he thought highly of both Thranduil and his son, Legolas. He never mentioned the Elvenking was short-tempered."

A husky chuckle escaped Bard's throat. "Your kin must be quite enamored with elves not to notice Thranduil's temper."

"Many mortals become enamored with the Firstborn when they forge an acquaintance," Bronwë teased with a slight grin.

Scarlet dusted the top of Bard's cheekbones though a wry grin rested on his lips. "Truer words have never been spoken." He stopped before the great oak doors leading to the dining room. "I feel I must caution you to overlook any sarcastic comments Thranduil might aim toward you. As of late he has been on edge."

Bronwë crossed her arms over chest. "May I ask why?"

Bard looked over his shoulder as though concerned with being overheard. "Rumors have reached him… In truth, they have reached Dáin and me as well. Easterlings are stirring and have been tracked in territory west of the Sea of Rhûn. I cannot say more without betraying a confidence."

"I understand," Bronwë replied softly.

Bard dipped his head before throwing open the doors.

The sight that greeted Bronwë's eyes had her staring in shock.

At one end of the long, highly polished rosewood table sat King Dáin with Balin, Glóin, and that blasted Gimli! At the opposite end was the most beautiful male being Bronwë had ever laid eyes on surrounded by a retinue of four elves. In the center sat Tauriel calmly eating from a delicious looking fruit and cheese plate. Tilda wore an expression akin to extreme irritation as she shoved a spoonful of honeyed porridge in her mouth. Bronwë wondered where the youngest of the king's children was for she found Lucanío delightful, especially his eagerness for the younger sibling his _nana_ would bear in six months' time. She surmised the presence of Bard and Tauriel's fellow nobles was the reason for the little boy's absence from the table.

Bard's mouth boasted a completely insincere smile. "My apologies for making you wait, Dáin, Thranduil." He gestured toward the figures behind him. "Please allow me to introduce Bronwë of Imladris, a messenger of Lord Elrond."

"Aye," Dáin skewered a sausage on his plate with the wicked looking dagger in his fist. "I met her already."

The Elvenking ignored the rich repast laid across the length of the table. Instead he leaned back in the large, carved chair with one long leg lazily thrown over the other. A simple crown of perfect birch twigs and holly berries graced his starlight-colored hair. He wore robes of shimmering silver with storm-grey leather boots.

Eyes the color of periwinkle gleamed from a face filled with both eternal youth and striking maturity. He possessed sculpted features of such indescribable masculine beauty Bronwë was struck mute. As though he knew his effect on her, Thranduil deigned to speak.

"Perhaps you have had the pleasure," he stated in an icy voice before it warmed. "I have not been so blessed."

Bard glanced at Tauriel and a small smirk washed over her lips before she discreetly popped a small piece of cheese between her lips. Clearing his throat, Bard raised one eyebrow. "My Lord Thranduil, please meet Bronwë."

Thranduil rose to his feet with silent grace. He was so tall he made Bard look like a young sapling by comparison. "I have not beheld a member of the Dúnedain in many years." His eyes glittered with secret knowledge. "The last was a man named Arathorn whom I held in the highest regard."

Bronwë trembled. The elves were sacrosanct among Dúnedain—especially the eldest elves—and here stood a Sindarin king of ancient lineage. Her father had taught Bronwë and her sisters respect, fidelity, and love for the Firstborn.

To the shock of all those present, Bronwë slowly sank down until she rested on one knee. She bent low over her knee so that her hair fell around her like a curtain; the tresses brushing the immaculate stone floor. " _Sílach sui Anor_ ," Bronwë whispered. _You shine like the sun_.

"What?!" Dáin demanded. "What did she say? I demand a translation!"

Gimli's voice was like a crack of thunder. "Speak the Common Tongue! I'll not abide the language of sprites!"

Bard's voice seemed distant to Bronwë but no less irritated. "My wife is an _elleth_ and I will thank you to remember that fact, Master Gimli."

" _Rim hennaid. Gil síla na lû govaded_." _Many thanks. A star shines upon the time of our meeting._

Bronwë raised her head just enough to find Thranduil smirking at her; genuine amusement in those beautiful orbs. She blinked and a chuckle escaped him.

" _Tolo, mado go nín_ ," Thranduil's voice was playful as he indicated an empty seat beside him.

One did not refuse an invitation to dine issued by an elf lord.

Bronwë stood on shaky knees. "I am honored, _hir nín_." She waited for Thranduil to sit before doing the same.

He raised one eyebrow. "The honor is mine, Dúnadan. To be compared to the sun is not a compliment I have received before." Picking up a perfect elderberry, he studied the dark flesh flashing in his fingers like a jewel. "Your people have always held a special place in my heart. Tell me why you have strayed so far from your own lands."

"To deliver Lord Elrond's letters and gifts…"

"Do not be shy!" Gimli shouted from the far end of the table. "Tell the Elvenking your true purpose!"

Thranduil's gaze slid from Bronwë up the table and landed on Gimli like a slithering snake. "Your Majesty, may I humbly suggest you control the rude little whelp among your entourage? His ill behavior reflects badly upon you."

Dáin grabbed Gimli by the shoulder and stared the younger dwarf down. "As much as it pains me, lad, the elf speaks true. Do nae interrupt again." A mutinous look flashed in Gimli's eyes. Dáin's hand tightened on Gimli's shoulder. "I mean it."

"Ah," Thranduil returned his gaze to Bronwë. "Dwarves never cease to amaze me! A show of manners is unprecedented."

Tauriel released a sigh. "My lord…"

He ignored the warning tone of her voice. "I received Elrond's letter and gifts you left with Tauriel. Why else did you travel so far?"

"To apprehend a wanted thief," she replied tightly.

Thranduil's eyebrows arched. "A fascinating story, I'm certain. Perhaps one day you may be persuaded to share the details? I so enjoy humorous tales."

Bronwë was spared a response by Bard.

"We have a problem," he stated bluntly; his voice tight. "It is our hope you may be willing to help us."

She looked around the table to find Thranduil and his elves, Dáin and his dwarves, Tauriel, Bain, and Bard all staring in her direction. "What sort of problem?"

Bard glanced at both Dáin and Thranduil. The dwarf was grave and silent but Thranduil gave him a slight nod. Taking a deep breath, Bard plunged forward. "Easterlings have been attacking villages and farms between Dorwinion and Esgaroth and clear up to the Iron Hills. We believe they are testing our strength and probing for the chinks in our defensive armor."

"Why have we not heard of this before now?" Gimli asked with surprise coloring both his tone and features. "What affects our allies affects Erebor, does it not?"

Bronwë was in disbelief at the earnestness Gimli exuded. From his words spoken with such hate before Dáin not three days earlier she had thought the dwarf despised the race of men.

"Aye," Dáin remarked with a strained expression. "You speak true, lad. I have held off speakin' of it 'til our kingdoms were in accord."

Gimli glanced at her with suspicion though he spoke no word. His jaw clenched and he turned his face away.

"What would you have me do? Speak plainly if you please." Bronwë watched the three leaders carefully.

Bard glanced at Tauriel and she looked to Bronwë. "I understand from Lord Elrond's missive you are a skilled tracker. We would not willingly send you into danger, but it is imperative we discover just how far the Easterlings have advanced. The knowledge you bring back would help us craft a defense."

Thranduil finally spoke. "The motives of the Easterlings cannot be considered anything but evil. The people of the East have long proved bosom allies of the Enemy. Movement around the Sea of Rhûn is a provocation. Not one of us here can afford to turn a blind eye to these raids or the slaughter of innocent men."

Bard gave Thranduil a tight smile. "Thank you, _mellon_."

The Elvenking acknowledged him with a slight bow of the head.

"I am not familiar with these lands," Bronwë stated. "I am willing to scout to the Sea of Rhûn and north to the Iron Hills. This being said, I will need a companion familiar with the people and the landscape to accompany me."

Thranduil gestured to the chestnut-haired, devastatingly handsome elf beside him. "Elros knows this territory intimately. He will join you."

The elf in question appeared perturbed though he flashed a smile in Bronwë's direction nonetheless.

"You should eat," Tauriel suggested with a grin. "Tilda is eager for her lessons to begin."

Bronwë looked down the table to be confronted with a young lady barely suppressing her impatience as she imbibed her morning tea. Blushing cheeks and dancing eyes met her gaze. A smile crossed Bronwë's lips as she accepted a warm, fragrant bowl of porridge with nutmeg and honey.

"I should not dare cross milady," Bronwë stated quietly before beginning her meal.

Tilda laughed around her mouthful of tea; nearly snorting it through her nose.

To Bronwë's shock a genuine smile curved Thranduil's lips upward; emotion glittering in the depths of his jewel-like eyes. Even more shocking still was the gruff chuckle that escaped Gimli. When she looked down the table, Gimli was attacking a plate laden with fried eggs and thick bacon.

 **-...-**

"Tighten your stance," Bronwë lifted Tilda's elbow slightly. "You must keep the bowstring taut."

Tilda carried through on the suggestions. "Like this?"

Bronwë nodded. "Exactly so. Chin up and do not be afraid to take your time in sighting the enemy. It is best to be absolutely certain before you let fly any arrow. The consequence of an ill shot is often death."

The remainder of the morning following breakfast was dedicated to the use of bow and arrow. Bronwë was pleasantly surprised at Tilda. She was a true adept and her hunger for knowledge gave Tilda an advantage most people could only hope to have. Already Tilda was able to land solid arrow hits to a scarecrow's legs. An impressive showing for a beginner.

Mid-day passed and the pair began dissembling the impromptu shooting range in the courtyard of the manor.

"Was Kíli a better shot than you?" Tilda asked with a smile; shading her eyes with one hand as she watched Bronwë work.

Bronwë smiled. "We were well matched at archery—he had a natural talent. The first time we shot against one another he beat me hands down. Kíli was a gracious winner; he teased me, yes, but gently."

The younger woman chewed her lip before speaking. "I heard rumors you and Kíli were… close."

Yanking an arrow free of the target, Bronwë studied the shaft closely. "Ah, no doubt you heard rumors of a thwarted romance or something equally foolish."

Tilda blushed beet red. "No, I uh… no…"

A soft laugh escaped Bronwë's throat. "Forgive me. You remind me of my youngest sister, Neniel, though you are younger than she and far less silly." She squinted at the sun and studied the delicate, robin's egg sky. "I weary of telling folk repeatedly there was nothing between us. Kíli had a strong, pure heart, and he didn't strike me as the type to squander his affections on any female that was not his One."

"Do you believe Tauriel was Kíli's One?" Tilda was busy sifting through the spent arrows; returning only unblemished arrows to the quiver in her hands. She did not look up at her companion.

Bronwë considered the question carefully before answering. "I do not know, for Kíli died and I cannot ascertain the future had he not. Though I might hazard to guess the answer is no. Had she been his One, the time they spent together would have forged a bond similar to that she now shares with your father, and so she would not have been able to initiate another with anyone else—nor would she have had the desire to do so. I'm sure by now you are aware that elves mate only once in their lifetime; it is a connection so deep that it cannot even be severed by death. Tauriel has such a one with your father, and I confess it is extraordinary to witness their love for one another.

"Of course, I must also confess I know nothing of romance or more tender feelings toward the opposite sex, therefore my opinion is virtually worthless."

A belly laugh escaped Tilda but her face was filled with disbelief. "Have you not had a sweetheart?"

"No," Bronwë looked to the door leading to the manor only to find Thranduil watching them. "Will you excuse me, Tilda?"

The younger woman looked up to see the Elvenking and flashed a gentle smile at Bronwë. "Yes, of course. Will we meet again here on the morrow?"

"Right after breakfast," Bronwë confirmed before bowing her head out of respect. "Farewell until tomorrow."

Tilda's brow arched high. "Will you not be joining us for supper?"

Bronwë shook her head. "Tonight is a feast night for the elves. I should not be surprised if Tauriel joins her people here in Dale."

"Why would the Elvenking ask you to join him in a traditional feast? You are not an elf." The innocence in Tilda's question took some of the sting from her words.

"I am not," Bronwë confirmed. "Yet my ancestors through a long line did descend from Elros, First King of Númenor. Elros was descended from the elves—though such nobility in our blood is almost spent."

Tilda appeared struck. "I meant no insult…"

"None taken," Bronwë assured with a smile before heading toward Thranduil.

He nodded as she bowed deeply at the waist. " _Mae govannen_ , Bronwë. Will you walk with me?"

"I would be honored," Bronwë fell into step beside him. "How might I be of assistance, _hir nín_?"

Thranduil guided them into a secluded part of the garden where delicate, yet hardy, snowdrops had begun to peek out from the sparkling snow still covering the ground. The whisper of his plum-colored silk robe competed with the cheerful chirp of sparrows. He carried a pleasant smell of moss blended with oak and musk.

"I hoped you might speak to me of my son." The Elvenking did not look in her direction but kept his eyes on the early blooming flowers. "The letter from Lord Elrond alluded to a friendship between Legolas and Elladan and Elrohir. I am aware through Elrond's words you are close to his sons. Have you met Legolas?"

She enjoyed the sunshine on her face despite the chill in the air. "I have met your son, _hir nín_. Prince Legolas is noble and good. He has been very kind to my nephew, Estel—they are becoming fast friends. I'm not certain how much more I can tell you. Prior to making the journey to Erebor, I was traveling Eriador gathering warrants for Nori's arrest and visiting my family."

"The loss of your sister must have been supremely painful," Thranduil stated in a smooth voice. "I can sense the burden you carry."

Bronwë was stunned. "Lord Elrond told you about my sister?"

"The Eldar have many gifts," Thranduil's tone held a lecturing quality. "There are times we can see flashes of emotion and even snippets of the lives of those around us. In your eyes I saw the reflection of your sister… Neniel. A beautiful name for a flower of the Dúnedain."

Tears filled Bronwë's, eyes blurring her vision.

"She was in love with Líndir. Such passion," he murmured softly; compassion filling his voice. "Neniel fell in love with the one _ellon_ in all of Elf-kind who could not return her feelings. Her desire consumed her like a scrap of silk tossed into a bonfire." Thranduil's eyes slipped to touch Bronwë's face. "He rebuffed your sister as gently as he could, and her sadness drove her mad. She fled from Imladris as far as she could before meeting the sheer cliffs outside Mithlond. Neniel jumped and fell like a blazing white star into the cold blue water below—her passion finally snuffed out with her life."

The tears escaped Bronwë's eyes and slid down her cheeks like boiling rivers of blood. "Stop it, I beg you."

Thranduil studied her. "I suggest you release the sorrow you carry. Neniel desired an escape from her suffering—and she did suffer. A broken heart is the most sublime pain one can endure. Your mother grieved until she followed Neniel into the grave. Do not carry the dead on your back, Bronwë. The burdens of life are heavy enough as it is."

She backed away from him before placing one hand over her heart. " _Navaer_."

Fleeing his presence, Bronwë did not see the small, sad smile that crossed Thranduil's lips. "We will not part formally for some time, Dúnadan. Your fate is tied to that of the north now."


End file.
